Remnants in the Mind
by Cascadia
Summary: Silent Shattering sequel. While Obi-Wan is still struggling to put the assault behind him, he and Qui-Gon are sent on a mission where he faces a threat that could send his hopes of recovery spiraling into the depths of despair. REPOST [complete]
1. Wilting Dawn

This repost is due to the interest of some readers who have contacted me recently about not be able to find this or its prequel _Silent Shattering._ Intending they would never again see the light of day, I pulled both stories last year for personal reasons: I had grown increasingly uncomfortable with the subject matter--a subject not to be lightly dealt with--and I would prefer to never again write about. But I suppose a story is meant to be read. I'm not putting them up again for reviews. Read them if you want--or if you don't want to read them, don't. :) Both stories are up. No changes have been made; they are the same stories they were when posted in mid 2002.

* * *

TITLE: REMNANTS IN THE MIND 

AUTHOR: Cascadia

Rating: R

CATEGORY: Drama/Angst/Hurt/Comfort

TIME: 7 Years Pre-TPM, Obi-Wan is 18

SUMMARY: While Obi-Wan is still struggling to put the assault behind him, he and Qui-Gon are sent on a mission where he faces a threat that could send his hopes of recovery spiraling into the depths of despair.

NOTES: This is a sequel to SILENT SHATTERING. It is recommended that you read it first. This is _not_ a Qui/Obi slash story.

WARNING: If references, insinuations, etc. of rape/sexual assault bother you, then please do _not _read this.

ARCHIVE: Sites who have previously archived any of my stories may archive any of them that they want. All others please ask.

DISCLAIMER: All recognizable characters are the property of Lucasfilm Limited. All the rest belong to me. I receive no profit from this. All I get is your wonderful reviews, so thank you for letting me know somebody's reading this.

DEDICATION: This is for shan.

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REMNANTS IN THE MIND 

(a silent shattering sequel)

CHAPTER 1-WILTING DAWN

There was no light. Not even a pale sliver or a faint ray. He stretched a trembling hand out, searching for anything that might be there, but there was nothing but a cold, cloying darkness, vile and insatiable. A chilling shiver passed through him, and he slowly turned around in a circle, with outstretched arms, groping for any touch. The wild thudding of his heart the only sound other than the distant, haunting clangor of a chorus of bells - the deep tones, stark and flat. He released a ragged breath and took a hesitant step forward, despairing to find any way out of the clinging dark.

Abruptly, a pale glow sparked to life, and he turned toward the source. It was a small, ivory candle, with a thick glob of wax oozing down one side. The candle hung there, radiant and suspended in the air, a source of rescue from the fathomless shadows.

But there was a hand holding it.

A wisp of wintry air drifted through him, and he vaguely noted the bells fading, falling deathly silent. The heavy thud of his heart increased in the stillness, now racing in earnest, and a wash of nausea descended quickly upon him.

He held his breath.

The candle slowly rose upward, its light trailing up the length of a body swathed in dark shades. Sickness boiled in the pit of his stomach, and he wanted to turn away, to turn and run, but found he was paralyzed by the escalation of unbearable fear. Unable to move, he stood frozen, a mere spectator to the twisted introduction of the adversary rousing to his misfortune.

The candle finally traveled to the man's face, wickedly exposed by the hushed lumen. The dark, leering eyes threatened and sent his mind spiraling into torment. With a strangled cry that escaped his throat, all coherent thought fled, and he struggled for air, gasping as he caught a faint breath. He quickly regulated his breathing, but it came labored and harsh to his own ears. Longing to escape the clutches of the man before him, he stumbled backward on legs now unsteady, and with a heart faint from the sheer terror pounding in his chest.

But he was not fast enough.

Lurching forward, the man crashed into him and pushed him savagely to the hard floor. He fell with his head painfully striking the unyielding surface, and the heavy weight of his ruthless assailant settled upon him. The room was dark now, hurled into a fog of obscurity by the fallen candle, at once snuffed out. In the grip of darkness, he desperately cried out, fighting against the strong, brutal hands that quickly captured his slender wrists and pinned him helplessly to the floor.

His mind reeled, tossed about by desperate fear, but held captive by the wanton sensations committed against him. Conceding that he had been overcome, his struggles ceased as he gave in to the inevitable conclusion of desolation. Then he squeezed his eyes shut in a mock attempt to escape the visual images, which were already lost by the want of light, and drifted aimlessly in a sea of filth.

Screaming, he jumped awake, his eyes wide and quickly scanning the room. It had only been a dream - a terrible dream. He shuddered and tamped down on the queasiness left from the nightmare, but he remained in a daze, staring at the ceiling until he slowed his breathing and soothed the mad pace of his heart.

Turning on his side, he stared blankly at the top of the dresser on the other side of the room where his collection of rocks resided. It was a myriad assortment he had found on Lorminth, composed of all different forms, sizes, and colors - but all were beautiful in appearance. Sometimes, he thought he could see shapes and images curiously hiding in the sparkling, gleaming stones. Sometimes, they held the mysteries of the universe, pulsating with the rhythms of the Living Force. And other times, they were only rocks.

He considered their inherent beauty, while he gripped the end of his braid for security. A childish gesture, he admitted - but one that he had adopted on his return from Lorminth. A rock is only a rock, he concluded. And a dream is only a dream.

But why did the assailant look different this time?

Perhaps there was no reason. Perhaps he would never know.

Or perhaps. . . he did not want to know.

He was still unsettled by the frightening dream, but he pushed himself into a sitting position, and slipped his feet to the plush carpeted floor. Only the soft lilac drift of sunlight filtering through the slatted windows lighted the room, bathing it in the watery silk of failing light. It was nearing evening. His nap must have lasted longer this time. Usually, he woke much earlier, with time to spend dinner with his master before his appointment with Healer Pasheso.

He looked at the brass chrono glistening in the fading light on the night table beside the bed, noting it was only half an hour before his appointment. Qui-Gon must have already eaten.

His eyes shifted to the metallic cylinder gleaming on the table beside the chrono. _His lightsabre_. Scooping it up, he felt the sense of protection that the weapon afforded. It felt good in his hand - the weight perfect, the grip fitting comfortably in his palm.

He stood and crossed to the dresser, turning on all of the room's lights. Removing his sleep pants, he slipped into a pair of loose-fitting sand colored trousers, and then found a tunic and under-tunic to wear. He left his room, turning on lights as he walked to the kitchen, dressing on the way there.

"Master?" he called quietly, searching for Qui-Gon's Force essence, but there was no trace of the man in their shared apartment. He checked the apartment, feeling that he was not alone. But there was no one there. He was alone.

So alone.

After making sure all the apartment's lights were on again, he returned to the kitchen and filled the tea pot with water, to make a cup of hot spiced tea before he had to leave to see the healer. Then he set the pot on the burner and turned it on.

Still in a bit of a daze, he wandered back to the common room, to wait for the water to heat, and found himself standing in front of the computer terminal.

With a slight hesitation, he sat down at the screen and punched in his personal security code. There were unread messages left for him, but he passed them over, instead, opting for the Temple's criminal files.

He called up the search function, pausing with a heart now thumping viciously, and entered the name 'Nim Tarren'. Within a second, the file appeared onscreen. He ran a trembling hand through his hair and swallowed convulsively before opening the file. Hoping there was no reason to be upset, and sending a quick prayer to the Force for him to be wrong or for him to have the strength to bear it if he was not, he tapped the key to open the file. The picture immediately popped up. He sat in dawning horror, staring at the picture and unable to look away as the realization sunk in.

"No." His denial was a desperate whisper.

His eyes grew desolate, their aquamarine depths clouded. Wrapping his arms around his midsection, he hugged himself tightly.

The sudden whistle of the teapot jolted him, but he remained in the chair and continued to stare with desolate eyes at the face on the screen. The scream of the teapot continued for several minutes as the trembling youth rocked himself in the common room.

* * *

There are some things that can never completely be forgotten. There are some things that he dearly wished could. Like the look of desolation and utter despair in bleary eyes that used to shine with the radiance of a tropical sea. 

A heavy ache blossomed in his heart as he remembered the reason the world had shattered. The boy with the sea in his eyes and the sun in his hair - who had become his legacy, his son - had been touched by the greedy hands of depravation. But he intended to let nothing harm the boy again.

He was never given to backing down easily, and where his padawan was concerned, that trait was even more pronounced. But when the little green master Yoda had first informed him of the Council's decision, Qui-Gon was stricken speechless, and given his propensity for debate, that - in itself - was an accomplishment unheard of, even among the curtained whisperings within the Temple's halls.

How could anyone be so blind? How could anyone be so stupid? How could. . . .

He gave up searching for appropriate words, and instead demanded, "why?" as he turned eyes of vexation to Yoda.

With equal annoyance, Yoda banged the end of his gimer stick on the tiled floor of the empty Council chamber room, its echo reverberating in the stillness that followed. Yoda looked up in the adamant face of Qui-Gon, knowing it merely reflected the inner protective drive of a Jedi master for his padawan, but even that knowledge gave no easy release for the shared tension in the room.

"Obey, you will. Or disciplined will you be," said Yoda, brooking no argument.

Through the windows behind the little Jedi master, the endless traffic of Coruscant's skies crept by in a continuous stream, while darkening, purplish clouds billowed angrily in the far distance. The luminescent glow tinted the silver strands in Qui-Gon's hair and hued the entire circular room in a pale of purple.

Master Yoda had summoned Qui-Gon's presence here for a formal request. 'Order' was more like it, the tall master thought.

"But, Master," Qui-Gon began, his emotion in a semblance of control. "Obi-Wan is not ready. The healers-"

"The healers, you say?" Yoda interrupted. "The healers it was who advised this, not the Council as assumed you have. Now, accept this mission you will."

Eyes wide with the new knowledge, Qui-Gon folded his hands within his robe. "So it is Healer Pasheso who has requested this." He smiled grimly. "_He_ thinks Obi-Wan needs to go on a mission, _not_ the Council," he stated in accusation.

"Agree the Council does," the little Councilor added in defense. His large, luminous eyes half-concealed by heavy lids peered up at him.

"But not you," Qui-Gon quickly concluded in irritation.

A soft sigh accompanied the little master bowing his head; his long, pointy ears drooped in sadness. "Believe Obi-Wan to be ready I can say not. Nevertheless, stay hidden away in the Temple forever he can not."

"I know that. . . Master," Qui-Gon added the title, careful to keep from losing control. "But when he's ready."

"And decide this who will? Hmm?" Yoda asked. "Hold no trust in the judgement of the healers do you?"

"I know Obi-Wan - better than any healer," Qui-Gon explained. "And I believe he is not ready to leave the Temple yet - not on a mission," he pressed.

Yoda sighed, turning away toward the doors, and paused, calling over his shoulder. "Hear your concerns I have," he said in weariness. "Tomorrow at the ninth hour, report to the Council you and your apprentice will. No more will I hear your defiance."

Qui-Gon sighed heavily, watching with indignant disappointment as the little Councilor hobbled out the doors.

* * *

It was soft and satiny, and if he had allowed himself, he would have drifted asleep there. But the strong desire to leave as soon as he could, kept him from giving in to that sensation, no matter how strong it felt. So he lay there with his eyes open, staring up at the polished ceiling tiles of peach, slate, and cream arranged in some indecipherable pattern, while the healer sought another question. All was silent, save a distant fan whirring gently. 

Healer Famu Pasheso studied the boy's face. His patient was young - too young to have experienced such horror. Silky spikes of ginger colored hair framed a smooth face of innocence. Too bad that innocence had been disturbed, he thought sadly.

Troubled aquamarine eyes traveled restlessly over the ceiling. The boy's slender body tensed and relaxed periodically, fidgeting with apprehension.

Pasheso leaned forward, closer to his patient. The little man's wrinkled face relaxed, losing some of its lines. "Tell me, are your dreams still the same, or have they changed?" he asked in a clinical voice, and watched as the boy's brow creased, his eyes blinking back unpleasant thoughts or images in his mind.

When the patient spoke, his accented voice was soft and speculative. "They. . . they changed." His clasped hands tightened nervously.

"Changed?" the healer replied, devoid of emotion.

"Yes. It was different last time." The padawan's eyes never left the ceiling.

"How was it different?" Pasheso shifted his weight, eliciting a rude creak from the large, overstuffed chair he sat in.

After a moment, the patient replied in a quiet voice. "Today," he swallowed nervously, "in my last dream, the face was different." He fell silent, closing his eyes.

"How was it different?" the healer prompted calmly, intensely observing the boy's actions.

"The face is," his eyes opened briefly before closing tightly again, "the man's real face."

"The man's real face? What do you mean by that?" Pasheso asked, thinking he knew.

"His face before he had it changed," answered the padawan quietly. His hands grabbed the end of his padawan braid that trailed across his chest, and painfully pulled on the woven strand.

With caution, the healer concluded, "do you mean, it's Tarren's original face you see now, and not Quaykin's?"

He was well aware of his patient's case. How the padawan's assailant had had surgery to appear like another man, in order to be involved in a conspiracy. How the man had arrived at the spaceport incognito. How the man had attacked the padawan out of lust. And how the frightened boy had accidentally Force-pushed his assailant over the railing, causing him to fall to his death levels below.

"Yes," came the whispered reply.

With a huge exhalation of breath, Pasheso sat back in his seat, typing a few notes on a data-pad.

"I didn't know what the man looked like before," the youth added, tremulously.

Pasheso frowned. "Then how do you know it was Tarren's real face that you saw?"

A shaky breath. "I looked it up in the criminal files after I awoke."

Pasheso returned to typing a few notes, sorting through the new data. This was certainly something new. But what did it mean?

"How did I know what he looked like?" the padawan lightly whispered, in a voice tinged in despondency.

Deep in thought, the healer barely heard the soft question. When he was quite sure he had heard correctly, he peered back at his patient, and was surprised to see the boy staring directly in his eyes. In that moment, he felt his heart break by the despair watering the boy's eyes.

"I don't know," said Pasheso, unable to keep the emotion from his voice. He choked back the tingling sensation that threatened to pull him into the well of devastation that the padawan would have sent him to by his eyes alone, and detached himself from his patient again.

He returned to his data-pad, making more notes. Then he looked back up and asked, "is this the only time you've seen the face in your dreams?"

"Yes," said the boy, staring at the ceiling again. His eyes, awash now with tears, fluttered closed.

The healer watched as his patient made no move when streams of tears flowed down both sides of his face. Sighing, Pasheso grabbed a box of tissues nearby, handing one to the boy and taking one himself to wipe his own face dry.

"That's enough for tonight, Obi-Wan," the healer said in an unsteady voice.

Sitting up slowly, Obi-Wan dabbed his tears away, and shakily reached for his discarded robe. Surely tomorrow would be better… he hoped.

Yes. Things _were_ getting better.

Weren't they?

* * *


	2. Enter the Dim

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 2-ENTER THE DIM

Sunlit in times of joy and tempestuous in times of vexation, the boy's eyes met those of his Jedi master as he entered their shared apartment, and the dead look within them shot straight to Qui-Gon's soul.

The Jedi master was seated comfortably on a sofa in the common room. A data-book in his hand was tossed aside as he stood. Pulling himself up to his full height, he crossed the room to where his student stood in a daze just inside the door.

"Obi-Wan," the master spoke gently. "Are you all right?" He pressed his hand flat against his padawan's back and rubbed slowly.

Stepping abruptly away without a word, Obi-Wan headed toward the window where the soft, damask plum drapes had been gathered back, revealing the quiet treading of night. His gaze drawn to the outside world, he stopped before the framed transparisteel and looked past his own reflection, caused by the single lit glow lamp, to the passing traffic.

In concern, Qui-Gon moved behind his padawan. Tenderly, he wrapped his strong hands around the boy's arms and pulled him back into a warm embrace.

Obi-Wan made no move to escape, allowing himself to fall pliant against his master's chest. The gesture was intensely caring, and he dearly wished for more. It seemed that his life had become taken over by unmoved individuals - people trying to help him, but falling terribly short of reaching him on the inside. They all dealt with the outside, with occurrences, with dreams - not who he was, not who he had become.

But who _had_ he become? He was not even sure of that himself.

"Tell me, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, tugging gently on the boy's silky padawan braid. "What is troubling you?" In tenderness, he slid his hands up and down, stroking Obi-Wan's arms. He watched the pale mirrored image of the room reflected on the window. Obi-Wan looked worn, exhausted, shoulders drooping.

After a faint sigh, Obi-Wan answered in a whisper. "Everything."

Qui-Gon paused his massaging, affected by the weight of his padawan's confession. "Everything?" he inquired, hoping to receive a more specific explanation.

"Yes," came the quiet reply. "I feel," Obi-Wan searched for the words to convey the feelings that he himself did not completely understand. "I feel alone - like no one really knows me or. . . or cares about me."

Disengaging the boy from his grasp, Qui-Gon turned him around to face him. "Obi-Wan," he said, with a slight sternness. "You know I love you as a son, and I care far more about you than you probably realize."

But Obi-Wan's gaze remained downcast in avoidance. He knew Qui-Gon meant those words, but he did not want to see the pity that too often graced the master's face these days, and _that_ he simply could not face again.

"I hope you already know this," the Jedi master went on, trying to reach the broken, hurting heart that hid in fear, "but I don't know if I could make it to the next day without you, Padawan," he gruffed. "I don't think I could live without you in my life. I don't think I would want to," he finished in a voice barely audible.

The youth's eyes, crystal in the sparse light, rose slowly, shyly, catching the glint of the glow lamp. For a moment, he just stared in the shaded midnight of Qui-Gon's eyes, searching for any trace of the pity that he feared would be there, but there was nothing but the splendor of love.

For a brief second, Qui-Gon wondered if he had reached that part in the boy that trembled on the edge of despair.

Obi-Wan released the breath he did not realize he had been holding. "I know that, Master," he said softly, breaking eye contact. "But I can't help what I feel. Healer Pasheso seems. . . so. . . removed - so uncaring."

"That's his job, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, folding his hands. "He isn't supposed to be there to love you, to be an intimate part of your life."

"I know," the padawan said, bleakly. He gazed at the floor, finding the utter unimportance of the color of the carpet.

"And what about Garen? He told me he was looking for you today," Qui-Gon pointed out, with a thin smile.

"He found me," the accented voice quavered. His pink lips, quirked a forced half smile.

But Qui-Gon saw the facade for what it was. "He's a good friend, Obi-Wan."

A sudden pained look fell over the padawan's face. "You're right, you're right. You're... _always_ right," said the padawan, in a voice drenched in defeat. Turning away in frustration, he rested his forehead on his hands pressed against the window, squeezing his eyes shut.

Qui-Gon stepped closer. "What is_ really _bothering you, Padawan?" he asked with a gentle inflection.

"I don't know. I really don't," the boy's voice threatened hysteria. "I feel like I'm walking around in a shadow. That no light can reach me. That I'm followed by phantoms - by things that aren't really there. And I don't know what to do." He whirled around, commanding his master's gaze. "I feel like _he_ is there," he whispered.

The haunted expression kept Qui-Gon silent.

"Tarren." The Jedi master said it like a curse, after he had regained his voice.

Obi-Wan winced at the mention of the name. "Yes. And he _won't_ leave."

"He's not here, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon shook his head. "He's dead, and he'll never hurt you again."

The boy answered, with eyes wild and voice hysterical. "He _hurts_ me every day-" A small sob escaped Obi-Wan, before he could bring the rising turmoil under control. He bowed his head in embarrassment and slumped in the cushioned chair behind him.

With a sudden movement, the Jedi master knelt in front of the boy and grasped the shoulders jerking from half concealed weeping. He gathered the shaking youth in his arms and held him tightly, engulfing him in a protective embrace.

Overcome by rampant emotion, Obi-Wan clenched his fingers in the folds of Qui-Gon's robe and buried his face in the coarse fabric. He did not try to stop the tears. He did not want to anymore. With total abandonment, he let himself release all of the insecurities of independence and reach for the strong protection of his mentor. He just wanted to feel safe again.

How he wanted to lose himself from the reality of what had become his life.

_His _life, for Force's sake - not some nameless person or non-acquaintance. This was _his_ life. . . and it was real.

So very real. . . .

As Qui-Gon held his padawan gently, possessively against his broad chest, he sent calming pulses of the Force to the trembling boy in his arms. It hurt him so, to know the crushing devastation that Obi-Wan endured. But he knew, beyond any doubt, what he himself felt could in no way compare to the frightful distress that daily tormented his padawan.

That. . . he would never know.

But more than anything, he wished he could take Obi-Wan's pain away. But even more than that, he wished it had never been there.

In a black moment of roiling anger, he nearly lost control of the pure, steady Force waves, and they slipped from his control, vacillating and thrashing in agitation.

Closing his eyes, he pushed away the regret and his perceived failure to keep his padawan safe, and grasped the flailing Force waves, redirecting the serene pulses once again into Obi-Wan - all the while cursing himself for everything else.

This was not how it was supposed to be, he thought bitterly.

Obi-Wan had not broken down this way since that day on Lorminth, when Qui-Gon had finally gotten him to admit what had happened with Tarren. In the time after, the padawan had never cried in his presence, although he assumed Obi-Wan might have while alone or in sessions with the healers.

The healers had been very helpful, Qui-Gon thought. Under their guidance, Obi-Wan had been able to release a lot of what had been bottled up within him, and seemed to have healed some emotionally. But it was understood that they would be on this road for a long time to come.

He had tried to do what he could for Obi-Wan, but felt at a loss as to how to help anymore.

"I'm so sorry, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered in the stillness. "If I had - there must have been something, something. . . ." He searched in futility for words to set the world right. Stroking the youth's soft, spiky hair while he cried quietly now, Qui-Gon stared dully out the window.

Darkness had fallen.

And fallen hard.

After a few minutes of quiet, Obi-Wan pushed away gently and sniffled. His eyes were red and puffy from shed tears; his eyelashes, darkened from dampness. But his face was nearly dry - thanks to Qui-Gon's robe, now damp where the padawan's face had been.

Qui-Gon slid the backs of his fingers affectionately across Obi-Wan's warm cheek, and tipped up the gently indented chin so their eyes would meet. There was a wealth of emotion in those beautiful eyes.

"I'm sorry, Padawan," the master spoke softly. "I want to do more. I want to take away all of this from you, but. . . I don't know how," he admitted helplessly, and saw a brief shadow of distress pass behind Obi-Wan's dulled eyes. "Remember, I am always here when you need me. And you can talk to me about anything."

Obi-Wan nodded hesitantly, watching the pity once more form in Qui-Gon's eyes. Too much to bear, he slid his eyes back to the floor. His hand found the end of his braid and held it tightly.

Qui-Gon noted the insecure gesture, but said nothing. He had noticed Obi-Wan's habit of doing that for some time, but hoped that he would grow out of it as he healed emotionally.

After a pause of silence, Obi-Wan's eyes grew wide and darted frantically over the room. Then they settled on Qui-Gon. "It's too dark in here." His voice was unsteady, yet urgent.

The Jedi master blinked. "Too dark?"

Obi-Wan nodded shyly, looking away longingly toward the only light on in the room.

There was a slight hesitation before Qui-Gon stood and went to the other two lamps in the room, turning them on. Then he returned to kneel in front of his padawan.

"Is it bright enough now?" he gently asked.

Obi-Wan nodded again. . . slowly.

"Obi-Wan?"

The student's face turned from the glow lamp where he had continued to stare, almost mesmerized. The face was blank, expressionless.

"Are," the master was not sure whether to ask or not, "are you. . . all right?"

Something passed behind Obi-Wan's eyes, something indistinguishable. Then the eyes turned dull again, lifeless.

Qui-Gon frowned. "Obi-Wan?" he ventured calmly, when it appeared he would receive no answer.

The aquamarine gaze fell, his head inclined toward the floor. "I'm fine, Master." It was a whisper.

"Are you. . . sure?" the Jedi master carefully prodded.

Obi-Wan's face flew up, his eyes defiantly meeting the master's. The chin set, determined. "I said I'm fine," he said through grit teeth, with a nuance of irritation.

Qui-Gon nodded in acknowledgment, and spoke kindly, "is there anything you want to talk about, Padawan?"

"I talk to the healers," the boy said quickly.

"I know," Qui-Gon said, watching the boy's tense expression relax. He didn't know how to bring it up, but it had to be soon. So he proceeded as gently as he could. "Healer Pasheso believes you've been doing well, and thinks it's time that you take up more of your duties."

The defiant eyes faltered, replaced by uncertainty, while a tiny spark of trepidation washed through the youth, before it was firmly stamped out.

The master smiled encouragingly before continuing, although he felt like he was betraying the boy he was trying to help. "Tomorrow, we're supposed to go before the Council and receive a mission."

The padawan's eyes widened. "A mission?" he asked, in a voice suddenly small.

"Yes. We're supposed to visit Rymie, to see about its acceptance in the Republic." Qui-Gon stood up.

Obi-Wan held his breath as a sudden heaviness settled upon him, and a sick gush boiled in the pit of his stomach. Something felt wrong. Something _was_ wrong.

But what?

"Master? Do we have to take this mission?" He fought to keep his voice steady.

Looking sympathetically at his charge, Qui-Gon said, "I'm afraid so, Obi-Wan. I already discussed this with Master Yoda, and I'm afraid there's no way out."

* * *

No way out.

There _had_ to be a way out.

But how?

The question fell silent, unanswered.

He wiped at the fogged mirror and stared at his reflection. His wet hair clung to his head like a cap, and fresh shower droplets rolled down his bare skin, amassing on the cool, tiled floor.

Drops still plopped intermittently in the empty shower stall behind him.

Sliding his hand across his throat, he nearly flinched from the gentle contact. There had been a knife that had once pushed with wanton threats of violence to his soft skin. And he had almost lost his life and more on that muzzy night.

He swallowed hard. Any remembrances set him on edge. But he had tailored a stoic facade - tailored after that irritating, serene expression of his master - to hide any apprehension he might have, as long as he didn't have to talk about it.

If he had to talk . . then he would be totally undone.

Qui-Gon was undoubtedly waiting for him, tapping his boot in impatience. And they say Jedi masters are calm. If Qui-Gon once more told him to hurry, he felt sure he would tell the old man off.

The old man? Where did _that _come from?

He nodded sardonically to his blurred self in the mirror - the same self that always agreed with him, even when unwise for both parties to do so. The Force was going to be dizzy trying to whisk away all of these straying emotions. It was definitely going to get a real challenge this time.

He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the mirror, while the plop, plop, plop continued in an irregular pattern. Wracking his mind, he tried to translate the chaos that had become his life into some form of understanding.

Once, he had been a bright, eager young child, sheltered by the tenets of conduct, schooled in the art of discipline. Life had been easy - too easy - as a crecheling and initiate. How impurity and worldly wisdom ever trampled those naive years could never be completely unmasked.

Now he was no longer that same child. Could never be again.

And whose fault was that?

If he had never met Tarren, if he had never been chosen to pick him up at the spaceport. . . .

He knew he was considered emotionally unstable - although they never told him that. And it would only strengthen that conviction to know he believed something was amiss. If they knew he wanted to avoid this particular mission, for a reason that even _he_ did not understand, then perhaps they would never trust him as competent - just a hopeless case, they would say.

Hopeless.

Helpless? Funny how close those two words sound.

But he should be able to handle some things on his own by now. An eighteen-year-old padawan was not a fresh-faced crecheling in diapers. And Qui-Gon worried about him too much, anyway. He did not want to be more of a burden than he already was.

Nor did he want to see that. . . _pity_.

With a rise of stubbornness, he pushed the anxiety away and decided to keep his silence. The mission would be fine. Rymie should not be any problem, no matter the bad feeling he had about it.

Besides, they might think he was paranoid.

Or _crazy. _

But maybe he was. Maybe they were right. Or maybe he was simply overreacting.

Pushing off the mirror, he stared into eyes dim with dread, and shuddered.

_Everything will be all right_, he smiled grimly to himself.

* * *


	3. The Rain of Slumber

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 3-THE RAIN OF SLUMBER

When they had started the trip to Rymie, Qui-Gon knew his student might be uncomfortable, but he would never have guessed the extent to how moody the boy would be. They had left the Jedi Temple early that morning, while the sun blazed harsh beams on the waking world. Obi-Wan, sullenly quiet, had merely walked by his side, dutifully answering when required, and avoiding eye contact.

They had boarded the diplomatic cruiser, making the necessary greetings and exchanges with the pilot and copilot, before retiring to their assigned sleeping cabins - where the boy would end up spending most of the trip.

Obi-Wan held a frosted glass of ranga juice and gently swirled its plum colored contents, as he sat in a stiff cushioned chair in his cabin. The juice was sweeter than he liked it, but it was the only juice stocked on the ship. Licking the sticky taste off of his lips, he looked up when the tall Jedi master entered the room.

"The juice is too sweet, isn't it?" Qui-Gon said, as he slid in a vinyl-covered chair near the doorway.

After a small hesitation, Obi-Wan nodded, sweeping his eyes back to the glass in his hand. With his thumb he swiped at the condensation on its outside, and heaved a sigh.

"Uh," Qui-Gon started, marginally uncomfortable. "We'll skip 'sabre practice today." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

Obi-Wan's eyes jumped up, sharply eyeing the master.

Midnight blue eyes steadily met the youth's gaze. "I don't think we're _that_ out of practice. A few days won't hurt," Qui-Gon remarked, inflecting sincerity with a gentle smile.

Quietly clearing his throat, Obi-Wan glanced out the door, past his mentor, but said nothing. He knew his master was disappointed in him. Earlier, when they were sparring in the cargo hold, Qui-Gon had reached out quickly, snagging the padawan's tunic with his hand, and pulled him into a hold, with his emerald blade held to the padawan's vulnerable throat. It was a clear defeat - and a bitter embarrassment.

He glanced at Qui-Gon again, wandering when, or if, his teacher would ever tell him of that disappointment. The man's posture appeared slightly tense, fingers twitching almost indistinguishably, but the face was unreadable - as it almost always was.

_Just tell me_, Obi-Wan thought, bitterly. He could not stand this stupid silence and pity anymore. The old man hid behind a wall of silence, periodically gracing him with a hollow word or a forced smile, all the while suppressing waves of pity.

It made him _sick. _

He sipped his juice, while he nervously bounced his knee. He could feel Qui-Gon's clear eyes studying him, but he leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes as the stretching silence grew between them.

Qui-Gon sighed and stood. "I'll go review the Rymian request."

* * *

A freezing cold curtain hung in the air, and white fog was everywhere. The early morning light filtered hazy through the drifting veil of fog, offering only dreamy glimpses of the tall skyscrapers lancing the air, looming slate gray and mighty, staking their place as immovable. Yet they were no where near the size of those on Coruscant.

He and his master stood on a large landing platform, periodically stung by a blast of winter chill. Strategically placing himself next to his master, Obi-Wan was able to miss most of the erratic gusts. After a few minutes, Qui-Gon favored him with a warm, knowing smile, which, the padawan thinly smiled back.

Next to them stood a small contingent of soldiers, armed with golden ceremonial pikes, held proudly in front of them. Their long, maroon coats tossed wildly about by the wind.

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably, tucking the end of his braid beneath his robe after it slapped him across the face. Beside him, Qui-Gon's long, light brown hair whipped about his face. The Jedi master tried to focus on the task at hand, though it proved difficult after the uneasy distance that had formed between he and his student on the trip here.

Qui-Gon scanned their surroundings. The city looked very industrial, very commercial, very much like the Core Worlds - and if nothing was out of the ordinary, then he would probably recommend it for Republic acceptance. The sounds of the city floated across the vast open air. The rumble of traffic, the muttering of voices, and just across the lush park to their right, stood a large hostel he had been informed they would be staying in.

He felt a rush of apprehension and turned to Obi-Wan, who was trying very hard to ignore his gaze. The boy knew he was looking at him. He was sure of that. Sending a mental touch out to the boy, he felt Obi-Wan send a quick affirmation, but it withdrew as fast as it had come. The master had let this kind of behavior recently slide, but it was recurring too often since they had left Coruscant. Making a note to himself to bring the matter up at some later, more appropriate time, he looked back to the direction of where it was assumed the Premier would come from.

The Rymian Premier, known to keep outsiders waiting, finally appeared and strolled across the platform, with a soldier at each side. He was a distinguished looking man, baldheaded and with a gray streaked beard. His deep violet coat trailed to his knees, while his black boots clicked upon the hard, gray deck.

The two Jedi bowed when he came to a stop in front of Qui-Gon. He exchanged a curt bow, and spoke in a clipped tone. "Follow me, please." A quick wisp of fog followed his breath.

Wordlessly, the Jedi followed him into the interior of a copper minaret-topped, squat building.

* * *

The shade of night fell quickly, as the last rays of natural light tilted over the horizon, abandoning the city to a thick translucence of shadow. It was then that the capital city of Rymie came to life, during the time of the Korgill - when the inhabitants celebrated the passing of ancestors of long ago. It was near worship of the ones who had lived long ago, with remembrance culminating in a huge weeklong fete. Everyone - it was expected - was to take part.

"Really, Master Jinn," Premier Valioh Sherveld smiled, looking down the length of his nose. "I think your apprentice is old enough to decide for himself." The tone was jovial, but Qui-Gon detected the underlying judgment.

The Jedi master glanced at Obi-Wan, who was watching a group of young children engaged in revelry nearby. The presence of the creamy foam-topped, olive drinks in every hand did not go unnoticed by either Jedi, nor did the richly spiced scent easily assaulting the senses.

Obi-Wan looked back at him.

"Thank you, but we are not thirsty now, Premier," the Jedi master responded in kindness.

"We don't care about age here, Master Jinn," the Premier said arrogantly, sweeping his arm towards the crowds.

"Thank you, but we must decline for now." Qui-Gon looked at his student.

/_We don't know what may be in those drinks, Padawan. This culture is still esoteric. Perhaps, later during dinner with the Prince, if. . . we sense no warnings./_

_/I understand, Master./_

The words made Qui-Gon smile, yet the tone of the boy's mental voice was dutiful, and lacked warmth. He had not sensed any reason to be cautious, but it was wise to be prudent in a culture that he knew very little about. Clearing his throat, Qui-Gon said, "I'm sure there are other things to enjoy here."

With Qui-Gon's lead, they sauntered along the boardwalk. The three soldiers escorting Sherveld, followed.

The festive music blared, drowning the entire city in the swells of joy and celebration. Colorful banners covered streetlights, pastel glow lamps spilled in a vivid fantasia of sight. The atmosphere was cheerful and almost made Obi-Wan feel at ease.

Almost.

But there was a sprouting darkness. A cold, black, creeping darkness that he could feel, watching, waiting to ensnare him. Must have been that bad feeling that had started back at the Temple. Only now, it felt much stronger.

Did Qui-Gon feel it?

_Force_, why would he?

The cold trickle of an uncontrollable shiver ran down his spine, but he hastily pushed it away. With trembling hands, he pulled his robe tighter around him when a quick rush of cool air drifted by, and studied his master. Qui-Gon appeared aloof, consumed by the Premier.

He sidestepped a drunken couple who nearly ran him over, and pushed on through the crowd, tramping along the paper-littered boardwalk in the wake of the Premier and his entourage.

Coming into a large - and loud - carnival area, they stopped, surveying the chaos. Various games were set up along the boardwalk, where vendors encouraged passersby to play. Small children skittered by, nearly running into them. The sweet smell of pastries hung in the air. Noisy chatter and laughter rumbled all around.

"You see, Master Jinn. Our culture here is well rounded," Sherveld went on, elaborating on the superiority of his planet - 'far above any in the Republic', the man had earlier said.

Obi-Wan glanced around at the crowds, ignoring the ramblings of the Premier. In the course of a day, the arrogant man had become a source of irritation for the padawan. Unfortunately, Sherveld had insisted that they accompany him to this festival, and afterward, to join him for a feast with the Prince. But the entire tour had been crammed full of snide comments and pomposity. Add to that, the fact that the man took every opportunity to try to put he and his master at odds.

Checking out a planet for acceptance in the Republic was usually considered an easy mission, but not this time, Obi-Wan thought miserably. If his anxiety for being here had not existed, he would have still disliked the mission by the Premier's actions alone.

Strolling past the muddle of Rymians, he felt a vague sense of being watched. Wary, he searched through the jumble of bodies, searching for whatever it was he sensed. There were people short, tall, thin, thick, winding around one another in disorder. Voices and bodies, thrown together in a clogged mass of confusion.

He blinked, fighting a sense of vertigo that had suddenly encompassed him, and slowly turned around, searching for. . . whatever it was he was looking for. But there were moving bodies everywhere.

Then everything faded away. . . . And _oh Force_, he saw it.

* * *


	4. Sliding Away With the Pain

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 4-SLIDING AWAY WITH THE PAIN

All he knew was the heavy thump of his heart that filled his chest and the blood pounding in his temples, as he stood frozen, unable to look away from the man walking casually among the festival throngs.

A nightmare? An illusion?

A _mistake_?

Whatever the cause, whatever the ultimate truth, the outcome remained the same: he saw Nim Tarren as alive as any man - and not with the surgically-altered face of Dajer Quaykin, but with the real face of the man as seen in his recent dreams and in the Temple's criminal records.

But this had to be all wrong.

_Tarren is dead_, his mind screamed.

_Dead. Dead. Dead._

In an instant, he was there again; the terror alive, the hot breath, the roaming of dirty calloused hands on his skin, all as fresh as the day it had happened.

A large hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder, and he jumped from the unexpected touch, coming back to his senses from the shocking horror.

"Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan!" Qui-Gon's voice threaded through his jumbled thoughts, drawing him back to the realm of the present.

He turned to his master, as a torrent of nausea descended heavily upon him. Unable to speak, he simply stared at him, and noticed how the air thickened in warmth around him, blocking out the icy coolness of just seconds ago.

Qui-Gon saw the wide-eyed stare and the paper-white face, and frowned in worry. "What's wrong, Padawan?"

"Master Jinn? What in the Sith are you doing?" Premier Sherveld spat out, stalking back to them, with his body guards trailing.

Obi-Wan looked back to the crowds, searching frantically for the man he had seen, and saw that he was no longer around. Bowing his head, he dropped his gaze to the ground. "I. . . just feel. . . ."

"What's wrong with your apprentice?" Sherveld said irritably, without a trace of compassion.

"I'm not sure," said Qui-Gon in a calm voice, his eyes never leaving Obi-Wan.

Aware of both men looking at him, Obi-Wan tried to still the cold, trembling sickness that engulfed him. He pressed a shaking hand to his lips, determined to not show the weakness he felt. But the violent heaving of his stomach was too much, and he quickly surrendered his kaerish soup to the wooden planked boardwalk - as well as across Qui-Gon's boots.

Qui-Gon grabbed the boy to keep him from slumping to the ground, and heard the Premier huff in disgust.

The man hissed through clenched teeth, wrinkling his noise. "Send him back to your hostel, Master Jinn." He turned around to his guards. "Get someone to clean this mess up," he absently ordered a soldier, who bowed and left.

"Obi-Wan?" called the soothing voice of his master, purposely ignoring Sherveld.

Through the din of the noisy crowds, the voices echoed, distant and hollow. Still disoriented, Obi-Wan found the steady, but worried, gaze of Qui-Gon.

Sherveld impatiently tapped Qui-Gon's shoulder. "Send the boy away, Master Jinn. I haven't even shown you the best things yet."

"I'll be fine, Master," Obi-Wan answered in a soft tone, casting his eyes downward, feeling shame for disrupting the Premier's tour. He sluggishly struggled to straighten up and stepped back from Qui-Gon, pushing the steadying arms away.

"I'll escort him back to our room, Premier," said Qui-Gon, catching the glare Obi-Wan sent him. "Then I'll return, and you may show me whatever you wish."

"But, you can't just-"

"I can, and I will, Premier," Qui-Gon interrupted smoothly. "If you wish to wait for me, good. If not, that's your decision." With that said, he swiftly directed the distraught padawan away.

As soon as they were out of sight of the Premier, Obi-Wan jerked his arm out of Qui-Gon's grasp.

"This is not necessary, Master," the boy insisted, turning to face the Jedi master. He leaned against the stone wall behind him to hide the unsteadiness he felt. The pale light of a festival globe painted him in dim, ghostly illumination.

Qui-Gon stood with the light at his back, crossed his arms casually. "I think it is, Padawan." Even with the lack of sufficient light, he could clearly see the boy's wan features.

Passing a shaking clammy hand across his brow, Obi-Wan wiped away the warm dampness of perspiration. "I'll be fine," he panted, swallowing the bile at the back of his throat. "Really."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Perhaps, but you're not now. Anyone can see that."

"I _can_ take care of myself, thank you," Obi-Wan argued respectfully. "But if I must go back to the hostel, I can walk back by myself. I don't need a nursemaid."

"A nursemaid?" The master's brows arched. "I have been called a great many things in my career, but a nursemaid is _not_ one of them. However, I _will_ walk you back to the hostel. And nothing is going to change that."

"I'm not a child," the padawan pressed.

"You're eighteen, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon continued in his elegant, calm manner that often times annoyed the student. "Whether or not that's a child is up for debate, but I am _still_ your Jedi master and you will do as I say."

Unable to think of any reply, Obi-Wan simply glowered at him, with that determined jaw set and eyes flaming bright blue. He vaguely wondered why his master's face was now a blurry smudge, and what had happened to the gravity here that made him suddenly feel so heavy. When another gush of nausea washed over him, he turned away, rolling against the wall, wanting to hide it, but his knees grew weak and he slid down the wall to the boardwalk.

* * *

The clanging of the carillon from the bell tower nearby told Obi-Wan that they were almost back to their hostel. Situated beside a central park, the massive bell tower's peal rang out across the city. It was a landmark, tall and cylindrical, with endless rows of arches from top to bottom. Light from within beamed out from each arch, a mimicry of countless beacons, while the melody of the carillon broke from deep within its bowels.

Qui-Gon had said nothing on the way there, but Obi-Wan could sense his master's concern for him as he was guided gently back to their hostel. As they ascended the wide, stone steps to the elaborate arcade that led to the inner rooms, the soft golden flush of the glow globes painted the two figures half in shadow, half in dim washed gold.

Leading his student with a hand on his elbow, Qui-Gon creased his brow at the pale, young face. All the way back to their hostel, and the boy was still pallid. He mused, begrudgingly, that half of the silver streaks in his hair had appeared over the last few weeks.

As they crossed the threshold of their room, Qui-Gon flipped on the lights and walked Obi-Wan to the 'fresher, peeling his student's robe off of the slouching shoulders. He filled a small glass with water and handed it to the boy, who tentatively sipped and swished some water around in his mouth, before spitting it out in the sink. Then Qui-Gon took the glass, set it aside, and walked Obi-Wan to his bed.

"Would you like to lie down, Obi-Wan?" he asked as gently as he could.

Numbly bobbing his head, Obi-Wan sat heavily on the edge of his bed and fumbled with his bootstraps.

After a moment of painfully watching his padawan unsuccessfully try to unclasp the straps with trembling hands, Qui-Gon knelt in front of him, quickly and smoothly doing it himself. Then, he pulled the boots off, and looked up into the pale face.

Obi-Wan did not look at him, but instead laid back on the bed and felt the mattress dip when Qui-Gon sat on the edge of it. He blinked as a heavy and cold hand draped itself upon his brow and then stroked his hair, before abruptly leaving. Shame-filled eyes found the Jedi master who leaned over him. He was embarrassed for being such a burden, for being so weak, so vulnerable. . . _so less than perfect_. He felt the flicker of worry from his master, before the midnight blue gaze met his. Swallowing hard, Obi-Wan simply stared at him, and picked at the edge of the blanket that Qui-Gon had laid upon him. The only sound was the hauntingly familiar muted clangor of the carillon.

Qui-Gon sat back, rubbing his own temples, trying to ease the pain of another headache. The room fell into silence, as the bell tower grew quiet. He had felt a spike of apprehension from the boy just before he had been sick. But now, all he could sense were tightly closed shields.

"Obi-Wan," the master said, with a softened expression, returning his attention to his student. "How do you feel?"

Frowning at the question, Obi-Wan wondered what he should tell him. He knew what he had seen, but feared Qui-Gon would not believe him. Why should he believe him? Qui-Gon would probably think he was crazy to have seen Tarren. And it would only be another reason for pity.

" 'M fine," the padawan answered, his tone a bit tremulous.

Qui-Gon looked at him incredulously. "Is anything wrong, Obi-Wan?" he asked with evident concern.

"No," Obi-Wan said, annoyed. Closing his eyes briefly, he reached for a center of calm. "No," he softened the word to a whisper, falling lightly, soft as the glide of silk on silk. "I just want to sleep."

Qui-Gon studied the slitted eyes, veiled by the dullness of dissipating nausea. "Do you need me to stay?"

Obi-Wan closed his eyes again, refusing to see the worry etched on Qui-Gon's face. "No. Go back to the Premier. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? Please tell me if anything is wrong." The voice held a slight strain.

Obi-Wan's stubbornness had always been grating on Qui-Gon's nerves. The boy continually dispelled any ideas that there was anything wrong with him, which - in some cases - produced unwarranted concern from the master, and worse, often sent him into an emotional whirlwind without just cause.

The boy bit his lower lip. "You worry too much, Master. Please, go." Desperately, he pushed the worry and confusion of seeing Tarren alive far to the vaulted concealment of his mind, where his master would never see it, and hid the boiling chaos beneath a surface of calm.

He told himself he should not be this weak. He was a Jedi, and a child no longer. But he could not deny that there was more than the worry, more than the half-healed scars. There was _The Darkness_ - almost like a presence, a sentience, that wanted to harm, possibly destroy him.

It was that shadow that he had been walking in, his own prison that he carried with him. And he knew no way of escape. He had tried to let it all flow through him and into the Force, but somehow it had remained, leaving bitter traces of something unknown and foreign. Something so dark he knew nothing of.

He had come to the conclusion that what could not be released into the Force. . . would simply have to be endured. Whether it destroyed him or not. . . was out of his control.

Opening his eyes again, he met the steady blue gaze of his master. He caught himself plucking at the blanket again, forcing his hands to still. He knew he could not hide the darkness forever, his master would undoubtedly see it. . . eventually. Without a word, he closed his eyes again, silently willing the world to be right again - if ever it could be.

Qui-Gon nodded to the boy's entreaty. "You need to sleep now, Obi-Wan," he sent with Force persuasion, felt the exhausted boy fall asleep. Then he wound a lulling Force tendril of peace around his charge, and stood, doused the light and left, with a soft swish of the closing door.

_The darkness had been birthed then. . . at the spaceport, when he had met Tarren. He just had not been aware of it. But he knew it for what it was now. _

Oh, he knew a lot more things now. . . .

* * *

_He stood against a dank stone wall; the rain of minutes ago staining the duracrete at his booted feet. His hands were tucked deep within the voluminous folds of his warm brown robe, and he ducked his head against a cool, rain-scented breeze that gently meandered by. The crowds were quiet as the late night arrivals wandered out of the spaceport's docking platforms. Only stragglers remained, one or two passing him by every few minutes._

_The scratching of boots on wet 'crete bled into his thoughts. He looked up to see the lone dark silhouette of a tall, well-postured newcomer. The gait was sure, gliding almost, and certainly lacked nothing in diplomacy._

_Watching the figure approach, he noted the formal cape of deep blue and well-groomed black hair, with misted streaks of gray. Hoping it was the man he was waiting for, he pushed off the stone wall behind him and stepped expectantly into the path of the slowing figure. _

_Dark shadows played across the man's face, as he came to a stop in front of him, bowing politely. "Padawan Kenobi?" the formal voice murmured._

_"Yes, sir," the youthful, cultured voice answered, bowing in return. "You are Dajer Quaykin?" He straightened up, meeting the piercing dark eyes that gleamed with intelligence._

_"Yes." The reply was drawled, thoughtful, and carried the nuance of something else, something hidden, as the dark eyes skittered over the padawan in front of him._

_"I was sent to take you back to the Temple, sir," the padawan explained._

_"Ah, yes. Qui-Gon must have sent you. He always was one to choose charming padawans, even if one of them was a bit too arrogant. But I'm sure you're not that way."_

_"Yes, sir. I mean, Master Qui-Gon sent me."_

_The speeder garage was swathed in shadowed gloom, with prison-gray walls and a thin black railing at the far end. _

Master Qui-Gon sent me. . . .

_It had never bothered him before, but. . . ._

_He pulled his rode tightly around his torso, hiding the ripped tunic beneath, and pushed himself to his feet, trying to blink away the darkness at the edge of his vision. But as he crashed back to his knees, causing a painful bruise that would count off the days until his life would never return to what was before, he wondered why a place of such torment had no bars. _

_He now recognized _when_ the darkness had appeared, but the _why. _. . remained a mystery. _

* * *

Usually, the driving blast of water against his skin was invigorating, but all he wanted now was to be. . . _clean_.

He had woken from a nightmare that was too vividly real, and dashed to the 'fresher, scrubbing himself until he was red. Perhaps if he could make himself clean enough, then everything would be all right again. He would be fine, and the darkness would be dispelled.

The Darkness.

It was there. He wanted it to go away, but how the Sith could he make it leave and never come back?

Desperately, he fumbled with the knobs, turning them as hot as they would go, but it was not enough. It was never enough. The steam clouded the shower stall, clouded the 'fresher, clouded his thoughts.

Yet still, he scrubbed himself. He was beyond feeling the burn, beyond the pain of the scalding gush of water, and if he had been able to form a rational thought, then he would have known when the water ceased falling, and when he was covered with a warm towel.

A strange sensation of sounds, distant and roaring at the same time, fell like windblown leaves through his mind. They tossed, haphazardly, carelessly, through the fogged passages of thought, and he suddenly saw the intense glare of twin midnight pools of sapphire. Swirling lazily into focus, they held the pity once again that he had so wanted to forget.

He _so_ much wanted to forget.

"Obi-Wan!" the frantic voice mirrored the frantic stare, and together they called out to him, for something to make sense within him. . . . For something sane again.

But he feared he was beyond that.

"Padawan, answer me," the shouting voice edged into his senses again.

Gradually, the midnight blue eyes came into focus again. If he had not known his master better, he would have thought there was the swell of tears in the man's eyes.

_A swell of pity_.

With a heavy thumping heart, he instinctively struggled against the strong arms holding him, but they were too strong, or he was too confused.

Or maybe it was both.

He heard the voice again, pleading almost. Pleading to be heard. And he felt himself being violently shaken, jerking his head back from the force of it.

"Obi-Wan. What's-" Qui-Gon stopped, swallowing the words that he had started to carelessly say.

_What's wrong with you? _He knew what his master was going to say. _What's wrong with you?_

He wished he knew.

Oh, how he wished he knew.

He looked back to his master, whose eyes were now closed in concentration, and felt a lovely wind of peace blow through his soul. The peace felt so relaxing, so good, that he ceased struggling, welcomed the calming waves, and let himself be carried and tucked in a place of warmth.

Warmth and security. Qui-Gon was here. He felt safe again.

* * *


	5. Falling Between Darkness and Light

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 5-FALLING BETWEEN DARKNESS AND LIGHT

The teapot's gentle whistle was quickly extinguished, sending the hostel suite back into a void of silence again, strangely peaceful after the maelstrom of sheer chaos hours earlier. The early morning suns had only just begun to shoot their blinding white light through the large windows, to hasten sleepers to wake, but the haggard Jedi master had been unable to sleep at all.

He poured the hot water into a dull metallic mug and placed the steeping ball in, before carefully carrying the mug with him back to the bedroom to continue his vigil over his student.

The boy was currently curled up in a tight ball on the bed, his breathing slow and steady, his face sweetly innocent and youthful. He was asleep and at peace - as far as Qui-Gon could tell.

After earlier finding the boy in the shower with scalding water cascading over him, the master had quickly turned it off and wrapped him in a large towel. The incident was too painful to recall; aquamarine eyes widely dilated and uncomprehending, skin lightly burned, panic and confusion sparkling through their training bond.

Further, the boy had fought him.

Obi-Wan had obviously been confused, but it was shocking to Qui-Gon, nonetheless - shocking in the indication that Obi-Wan had no idea what had been happening.

He had held the boy for a long time after wrapping him in blankets and pressing him in a deep sleep, rocking him gently, speaking soft words of nonsensical comfort - more for himself than for any benefit to Obi-Wan.

He knew the boy was strong - despite what had happened last night, despite all of the tears and anger and weariness that had flooded their lives since Obi-Wan's assault. And for that reason, he had questioned why the struggle had been so difficult - more difficult than he thought it should have been.

Obi-Wan was so strong, so bright in the Force, and so very capable. . . .

* * *

_Qui-Gon strode through the elaborate Temple halls, purpose in his stride. He had a problem, but he knew who he could rely on to solve it. _

_Obi-Wan. The reliable, dutiful padawan. Of course the boy would do anything he wanted. All he had to do was ask._

_There he found him, in the dazzling sunlight, sitting on the crisp green grass of the Temple gardens. To the boy's side sat his best friend Garen, an age-mate and fellow padawan. The two boys, Obi-Wan and Garen, with his dark hair and fathomless dark eyes, made quite a handsome pair walking through the Temple halls, undoubtedly drawing the gazes of many young female padawans. _

_As he approached, Obi-Wan looked up, greeting him with a bright, sweet smile, while the brilliant light shone magnificently on the youth's flawless face. The radiant eyes, luminous and prismatic as a beautiful deep sea, glowed with the love and affectional trust that had grown between them. _

_"Good morning, Master," Obi-Wan said, leaning back to casually rest on his elbows._

_"Good morning, Padawan, Garen," Qui-Gon smiled warmly, with a small nod to them both._

_"What brings you here, Master?" Obi-Wan asked, mischief gleaming in his eyes. "Did the Council let you leave without a disagreement this time, or are you searching for another grub-crawler to rescue before someone accidentally steps on it?"_

_Qui-Gon smiled wryly, ignoring the snicker from Garen. "Actually, Obi-Wan, I was searching for a wonderful padawan who would help out his old master. Do you know of any such one?" he asked innocently, watching the humorous expression morph into a more serious one._

_"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan answered obediently, sitting up. "What do you want me to do?"_

_"My friend Dajer is arriving today, as you probably recall," the Jedi master explained._

_Obi-Wan nodded, his attention fully on Qui-Gon._

_"I need to prepare a room for him to stay in," the master went on. "Since the one I thought he would be using is being used by someone else, and I was not informed of this until just now, then I need you to go pick him up at the spaceport for me tonight."_

_Obi-Wan felt Garen's intense gaze on him, and spared a quick look at the other padawan, before returning his attention back to Qui-Gon. _

_Catching the unspoken exchange, Qui-Gon said, "I need you to do this for me, Obi-Wan. It will take me all day to prepare things and clean up the room, even with help. He was expecting me, but I cannot be there now." He paused, asked hesitantly, "Do you already have plans?"_

_Obi-Wan's eyes flicked away quickly. "Yes, Master. I did. Garen and I were going to see a demonstration of the new G-19 Firesweeper." He stopped, looked back at Qui-Gon and smiled somberly. "But I can do whatever you want." _

_"It should not take long. You might have time for both," Qui-Gon said with a small trace of embarrassment, cleared his throat and gently added, "and I already informed Dajer that you would be there to bring him back."_

_"Yes, Master."_

* * *

Blinking back to the present, Qui-Gon looked back to his padawan on the bed. Hooking a foot around a chair leg, he pulled the chair next to the bed and slowly lowered himself in it, his exhaustion suddenly wearing on him. He tucked the blankets tightly around Obi-Wan again and threaded his fingers through the spiky silken hair, breathing its clean, fresh soapy scent.

Glancing at the chrono hanging on the wall, its pale blue light softly blinking, he mentally calculated the time difference on Coruscant. The Council would be out to lunch by this time. Perhaps he could speak with Yoda. The wise, old master had been of immeasurable help to him in more times than he could remember, and he definitely could use some advice now.

Sparing one more affectionate look at his padawan, he went into the adjoining room to the comm station. He considered going to the public comm downstairs so as to not disturb Obi-Wan's peaceful slumber, but after careful consideration elected to stay in their suite, in case the youth needed him. Reluctantly, he admitted that he had become overly protective of his student.

Sinking in the silky, plush side chair, Qui-Gon entered the Temple's transmission code, sipping the hot tea in his hand. He frowned and looked at the still steeping water in the mug, tasting only the faint byreena spice on his tongue. Suddenly thinking of his appearance, he hastily set the mug down, straightening his tunics and brushing his hands over his hair to hide the strays that had escaped the hairclasp in the back. _I must look awful_, he thought fleetingly, his mind already back to the comm.

A young face lit up the screen, eyes bright and overeager. The girl bowed, her silky dark brown curls tumbling about her elfin face, then said, "Jedi Temple. How may I be of service to you?"

"Yes," Qui-Gon breathed deeply to slow the rush of adrenaline. "This is Master Qui-Gon Jinn. I need to speak with Master Yoda."

The child looked away, to something out of sight at the side, frowned, then looked back at him. "Master Yoda has gone to the Galactic Senate Building on business. Do you want to leave a message, or is there anything else I can help you with?"

Qui-Gon stared at the expectant brown eyes that blinked shyly. "Ow," he jumped up from his seat, holding the mug away from him, scowling at the hot tea spills on his pants legs. "No, no, no," said the Jedi master with barely contained frustration.

Glancing back at the screen, he saw the uncertain dark eyes watching him, and set the mug aside.

"Uh, I'm sorry, Padawan," Qui-Gon said, politely inclining his head. "I'll try to catch Master Yoda later. Thank you." He smiled reassuringly and waited for the girl to smile, before ending the connection.

* * *

Consciousness came slowly, edging into the sheer darkness that had overshadowed him mere hours before. His first awareness was of that cruel dark power buzzing, but he did not invite it in, allowing it to become a part of him. No. He would never do that.

It was evil.

Pushing it away, he shivered and huddled deeper into the thick heavy blanket around him, pressing his cheek into the soft pillow, seeking a refuge of comforting warmth from the sickly cold air around him that seemed to leech every bit of heat from his body.

The sound of a faint shifting of cloth and a dull clanking brought him further toward consciousness, but he laid still, wanting to stay from it as long as possible. When the sweet aroma of something savory wafted to his nostrils, he suddenly realized how hungry he was.

A gentle hand slid across his back, and he wanted to shrink away from the touch, but forced himself to remain still. He knew it was Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon. Oh, Obi-Wan had a vague idea of what had happened last night. A blurry canvas of images and thoughts was all that remained, but that was enough to know that Qui-Gon was no doubt disappointed in him. That thought did nothing to encourage him to full wakefulness.

He wanted to slip away from it all, pretend the last few months had never happened, but that was not the way a Jedi padawan should feel. He was just a disappointment to himself, to his master, to the Jedi Order.

"Obi-Wan," said the soothing baritone voice of his master. The hand shifted up to his face, the backs of fingers lightly caressing his cheek. "Padawan, I have breakfast here. You need to eat something."

One sleepy eye opened, staring out of the haze of slumber, while the other eye remained buried in the pillow. The pale iris rose, settling on Qui-Gon's face brightly lit by the morning light, then fell to the tray of dishes in the master's lap.

"Please eat," Qui-Gon urged gently, patiently waiting for any response. It was the way Qui-Gon had always treated him whenever he had suffered any illness or injury on a mission. So kind, so caring.

A mission to Cagonor sprang immediately to mind. Obi-Wan had contracted a potent strain of Jelogian Flu. The primitive locals had given the fifteen-year-old boy the only medication they had for it, expecting it to work effectively. But their physiology was different - different enough that the sickness only progressed in the young padawan's body.

Feverish and frequently hallucinating, Obi-Wan had only vague memories of the whole ordeal, but he did remember the presence of his master and the tender care that the man had given him in his more lucid moments. Finally, after five days, the boy's body had by no small miracle finally purged itself of the terrible Flu.

But now the padawan could not help but see it all colored with sympathy, even the dreaded pity. He inhaled the inviting scents of honeyed rolls, freshly halved putla fruit, and the sweet tang of diwi juice - a hidden treasure they had discovered on this planet.

Pushing himself up sluggishly, Obi-Wan realized with startled embarrassment that he was still naked from the shower. He held the blanket snug around him while Qui-Gon arranged the pillows behind him, then slowly sank back against the soft fluffiness. The tray was placed across his lap with a care most never saw from the reserved Jedi master.

Looking over the tray, Obi-Wan's stomach growled. He rubbed his eyes and stole a glance at Qui-Gon, who was sitting in the chair beside the bed, silently watching him.

"How-"

"What was dinner like with the Prince, Master?" Obi-Wan softly said in haste, but casually enough to seem to not notice he had interrupted Qui-Gon, while his eyes roamed hungrily over the tray of food.

"It was nice," Qui-Gon answered. A pleasant smile graced his haggard face at the memory. "Prince Lekiam is a kind man, not at all like the Premier."

Nodding, Obi-Wan stabbed the ruby flesh of the putla fruit with a fork, pulling off a small bite. "How was the food?" He poked the bite in his mouth, his eyebrows rising. "Mmmm."

"Exactly," Qui-Gon lightly chuckled. "If you ever get tired of Zihrinian cuisine, this is the next best thing."

"That good, huh?" Obi-Wan smiled at him briefly. Too briefly, before returning his attention back to the food in front of him. "This is good, Master. But I assume dinner was much more rich than this."

"Yes. Breakfast here is lite and healthy. Dinner, at least with the Prince, was extremely rich and thoroughly satisfying." Qui-Gon sent a covert probe, mentally touching his student's mind and found the shields firmly in place. Obi-Wan was still pushing him away. It was time they talked.

Qui-Gon struggled with a choice of words when the comm unit gently buzzed. Rising, he left the room and flipped the answering switch at the comm station.

The image of Healer Famu Pasheso appeared on screen, his gray hair neatly slicked back and his gray eyes sharp. "Master Jinn. I commed as soon as I found out."

Qui-Gon frowned in confusion. "Found out?"

"That you had called the Temple," the healer explained, cocking his head. "This is about Obi-Wan, isn't it? You're having trouble handling the boy, are you not?"

Unsure of where this was going, Qui-Gon tonelessly replied, "I wanted to talk to Master Yoda."

"I know, but Obi-Wan is my patient. It's my business where he is concerned," the healer explained. "I knew you would have trouble with him, Master Jinn."

"What do you mean?" Qui-Gon fought to remain calm and quell the quiver of foreboding in the pit of his stomach. As yet, he was not sure whether to be angry or concerned.

The healer's eyes sharply eyed him. "Obi-Wan should be able to handle a simple mission like this one, but he's having problems, is he not?"

"Well, I'm. . . not sure," Qui-Gon answered hesitantly.

Pasheso impatiently nodded. "I cleared the boy for a mission, because he should be able to handle it, but _you_, Master Jinn, do not know how to handle him. This is all your fault. Obi-Wan would be further along if not for you."

Suddenly needing to sit down, Qui-Gon sank into the chair in front of the comm station, his mouth open in shock of what he was hearing. He was bereft of words.

Pasheso went on doggedly. "I'm going to speak with the Council concerning a new master for Obi-Wan. It's apparent you can no longer train a padawan."

Qui-Gon finally regained his voice. "This is the most ridiculous. . ."

"This is _not_ ridiculous." The healer crossed his arms in frustration, eyes glaring. "This is serious. And a serious problem that I must take to the Council."

"Healer Pasheso," Qui-Gon said in a voice dangerously tainted in anger. "Obi-Wan is my padawan and will remain my padawan, and I will not have you interfering."

Pasheso snorted. "That's how you felt about Xanatos too, wasn't it?" He lifted his chin defiantly. "Wasn't it?"

Blinking back the pain, Qui-Gon replied as calmly as he could. "This is not about Xanatos."

"No," Pasheso stated matter-of-factly. "This is about you - and Obi-Wan. And Obi-Wan needs a master who is competent enough to help him."

"Healer. I ask that you stay out of this," warned Qui-Gon.

"Nevermind, Master Jinn," the healer smiled humorlessly. "I can see this is going nowhere. I'll contact you later if I need to. Good day."

The comm screen blinked out, leaving a distressed Jedi master staring at the screen.

This was definitely the last thing he had expected. Pasheso had always been cold toward Qui-Gon, but never to this degree, and never to suggest that he believed Qui-Gon was incompetent. Standing unsteadily, he returned to Obi-Wan's room, finding the boy out of bed, wearing only a pair of leggings while rummaging through his travel bag.

Obi-Wan glanced behind him, to the Jedi master standing in the doorway. "Who was that?" he said in a casual tone, returning to his task.

"It was the Temple, returning a call." Qui-Gon said, watching his student pull a clean tunic out of the bag. He leaned against the doorpost, rubbing a hand across his wiry beard, his mind still preoccupied with the comm call.

Obi-Wan stood, turning halfway towards him with the tunic in his hands. "Anything important?" His eyes were shaded dark with worry.

"No," the master replied quietly, meeting the boy's gaze. This was not something to tell Obi-Wan - at least, not yet. There was no need to worry him.

The boy's eyes cleared, and he appeared to relax, accepting Qui-Gon's answer. "So what are we supposed to do today, other than baby-sit the Premier?" the youth snickered nervously.

Qui-Gon knew Obi-Wan was trying to avoid talking about his confusion in the shower, as well as the distancing of himself from Qui-Gon. The boy was hedging, but the master decided to not indulge him further. Walking to the front of the youth, he placed his hands on the boy's bare upper arms, squeezing gently and drawing his padawan's attention.

Obi-Wan eyed him with wary suspicion.

"How are you, Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon felt the boy's biceps tense slightly.

With a faint sigh, Obi-Wan absently fingered the bottom of his braid. "I suppose I'm fine, Master," his voice soft and distant. Aquamarine eyes dropped.

"What about. . . what about last night?" said Qui-Gon slowly, hoping he was saying the right thing.

The padawan's eyes flicked briefly to Qui-Gon's, before falling again. "What about it?" said Obi-Wan, in a barely veiled challenging tone.

"You've never done that before," Qui-Gon said delicately.

Obi-Wan ducked his head, embarrassed. "So," came the quiet reply.

"So," the master continued evenly. "What happened?"

"I had a nightmare, okay?" the boy shrugged one shoulder, fractionally lifting his head. He peered up through dark eyelashes. He could not mention the Darkness. The intensity of it that had touched him while in the shower had nearly frightened him. He felt this was something he should tell, despite the unwanted pity that might result, but something held him back.

"Obi-Wan, you-"

"It's no big deal, Master," Obi-Wan interrupted, his hands unconsciously gripping the tunic tighter. "Can we forget about it?" His tone was civil, but obstinate.

Qui-Gon's brows knitted together. "Obi-Wan, ever since we left the Temple, you've been shutting me out," he said, a tinge of scolding slipped through the normally calm voice.

Obi-Wan pulled out of his grasp, taking a couple steps back. "There's nothing else to tell," the padawan argued, the agitation in his voice rising, eyes mutinous.

"I think there is, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon went on, his voice deceptively peaceful. "That had never happened before. I know you, my Padawan, and I know when something's bothering you." Midnight blue eyes earnestly searched the boy's.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened, unable to look away from Qui-Gon's. He feared they could see straight into his heart. "I'm fine," the boy said tightly.

"I don't think so," Qui-Gon bluntly remarked. "And I wish you would stop saying that." He tried unsuccessfully to hide the amusement from his voice.

The humor in his master's tone only inflamed Obi-Wan, his chin stubborn, his eyes storming. "What do you want me to say?" he asked in exasperation, quickly sobering his master's expression. He wanted to continue, to ask _Why have you cancelled sparring practice every day? Why do look upon me with eyes of pity? Why did you make me pick up YOUR friend at the spaceport? Why did I see Tarren?_

But he held it all back.

"I want you to tell me what's wrong?" the Jedi master pressed, undeterred by his padawan's rising anger.

"Nothing." Obi-Wan stared rebelliously. "Nothing more than there has ever been. Don't worry about me, Master. I can take care of myself. I'm a Jedi," he spat out, a little more strongly than he had intended.

"You've not been acting like one," Qui-Gon countered quickly, and immediately saw that that was the wrong thing to say.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened in surprise, staring unblinking in the Jedi master's eyes, then momentarily faltered, with a bleak look surfacing.

Seeing the hurt spread across his padawan's face, Qui-Gon took a step forward, wanting to make amends. "I'm sorry," he said, a little breathless. "I didn't mean. . ."

"No," Obi-Wan's voice barely trembled, but the hurt was unmistakable. "You _did_ mean it, and you're right. I haven't been acting like a Jedi." The boy turned away, bowing his head, and buried all of his emotions deep within the strained confines of his heart. "Especially last night," his voice softly caught on the last word.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said to the boy's back, wanting to placate, and felt the knotting up of his stomach. He stretched his hands out toward his student in a vain attempt to take back what he had said. For all the years of diplomatic experience he had as an interplanetary mediator he still could not communicate effectively with his own padawan.

"I'll be ready shortly, Master," Obi-Wan called over his shoulder, his voice more controlled. After wiping a hand across his eyes, he went in the 'fresher, the door closing softly behind him.

Qui-Gon slid to his knees, burying his face in his hands and remorse in his heart.

Maybe Pasheso was right.

* * *


	6. Stirrings of a Shadowed Darkness

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 6-STIRRINGS OF A SHADOWED DARKNESS

The morning sky on Rymie shone brightly with a pale pink wash, while streams of ethereal rays shot through the rosy clouds, painting the tall gray buildings in a blush of pink hues. As he shifted his feet, his eyes slowly dropped from the heavenly luminescence to the spread of winter gardens below him.

Eroleen it was called. 'Place of the Divine Child', as translated from the ancient Rymian tongue no longer spoken, except in intellectual circles or by text scholars. Premier Sherveld had brought them here, showing them the frost covered fields and vine-twined arbors of the richly cultivated and sculpted floralscape of the public gardens. Even the decay of winter did nothing to dim their beauty as natural light glittered across the dripping frost like a galaxy of millions of shimmering crystals.

With eyes sweeping further down, he leaned over the durasteel balustrade, trying to estimate the precarious distance to the walkway of gray flagstones below. From here it all looked deceptively miniature, like a child's play garden. So tiny. So imaginary.

There was the little teahouse they had stopped to rest in. Its exotically curved roof sparkled brightly. To its right was the grove of Tinterbays, elegant bare limbs glistening with a thin cover of clinging ice. Crisp hearty mid-winter flowers of azure, magenta, and lilac lined the sides of the tortuous walkway that seemed to connect everything together.

He pressed his hand against his hidden tunic pocket, absently feeling his birthday rock, but his fingers converged on the smaller form beside it. A seed from a tiny crimson Sandriffa floret that prospered in chilling temperatures. Sherveld had extracted a handful of the oblong black seeds from the trumpet shaped bloom, giving both he and Qui-Gon a single seed each. He knew Qui-Gon planned on sowing his own in hopes of cultivating the plant, but he had not yet decided what he would do with his.

He leaned over further, feeling the top of the railing dig into his abdomen. It would be a long way to fall. Not as far as from his balcony on Coruscant, but still far enough.

He remembered how he used to dangerously lean over railings at the Temple when he was younger, using a cushion of the Force to keep from falling over the edge. It was a childish habit. One that Qui-Gon eventually broke him of after repeated warnings and punishments.

He was reckless, he had been told countless times, and he knew it. His master had taught most of it out of him, but streaks of it still remained, periodically making itself known, surprising both Qui-Gon and himself when it did.

He suppressed a smile as he leaned even further over into the cold open air and stretched his arms out. Slowly, he lifted his feet off the durasteel floor and straightened his body so that he was horizontally balanced on the top of the balustrade by his muscle-contracted abdomen. Then he closed his eyes to the beautiful frosty spectacle below him.

When he could feel the Force barrier form beneath him, holding him up, he opened his eyes and gently shifted his weight forward onto it, until he was dangling even more dangerously over the ledge.

If Qui-Gon caught him . . . oh, he did not want to even consider that.

The cool wintry breeze on his face and surrounding him was refreshing, freeing. Just like when he was fifteen on his balcony at the Temple. Of course, his master's catching him was not a pleasant memory. It was right after they had returned from Cagonor, where he had been so sick. The memory of Qui-Gon's gentle care there had been quickly overshadowed by the Jedi master's fierce rebuke of his latest disobedience. It had hurt at the time, but Obi-Wan knew it had been needed. The look on Qui-Gon's face alone was nearly enough to make him never do it again.

Nearly enough . . . until now.

Right now he just wanted a small escape. He smirked and let himself dip further onto the cushion of energy in the open air.

Thoughts of _before_ flipped casually through his mind. He sifted through them, longing for that same freedom, that same bold assurance, that he had before the . . . attack, and before that shadowing darkness had shimmered through his mind.

It was frightening the more he thought about it. What exactly had happened to him? Was he really going insane? Was he . . . ?

Suddenly, the cushion below him shied away. Gasping, he strained to grab onto the fading tendrils of Force energy and pull himself back, but they carelessly unraveled like a ball of twine, and slipped away with strange abandonment.

This was it. The Force had fled from him, and now he was going to fall and. . . .

Closing his eyes, he waited. The air whipped by coldly, and he almost blacked out. He willed himself to, but it all happened so fast that when his mind cleared, he realized that there were arms around him and that he stood dizzily on shaky legs. Then he noticed that he was still on the balcony and Qui-Gon was holding him up.

"What . . ." he started faintly, his confusion clear.

"I pulled you back just in time, Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, his voice chiding. "I thought you did not do that foolish trick anymore."

"I . . ." Obi-Wan regained his footing and turned around to face Qui-Gon. "I have not since the last time you caught me," he said distantly, still wondering at the Force slipping so easily from him.

The Jedi master straightened himself up to his full height as he stalked closer, almost hovering over his student, hands resting on hips. "And I expect you to never do it again," Qui-Gon sternly said, his midnight blue eyes flashing. "Do I make myself clear, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan found he could not meet Qui-Gon's scrutinizing gaze, or his intimidating stature. So he bowed his head in shame. Flicking his eyes up to his master's visage, he stole a furtive glance and wished he had not. "But, Master-"

"I don't want any backtalk," Qui-Gon warned, with jaw muscles clenched. "I expect you to obey me whether we're at the Temple or not. Despite anything that has happened to you, there is no reason why you cannot." As the words left his mouth, Qui-Gon almost winced at their sting. He knew they needed to be said, yet still he could not believe he was saying them. "I have been easy on you recently, but if you are going to use lack of discipline as an excuse for disobedience, then I suggest you rethink that. Do you understand me, _Padawan_?"

Obi-Wan's jaw tightened, bristling at the rebuke and the vocalized emphasis on his rank. "Yes, Master," he answered evenly. Refusing to meet Qui-Gon's eyes, he instead stared intensely at the smooth russet flooring at the foot of the taller man.

"Master Jinn?" called a voice behind Qui-Gon. "Please, come and meet Regent Karielle Thyrpaen."

Qui-Gon looked toward the source of the voice, seeing the Premier peering out at them from behind the heavy, elaborately carved zukk-rum wood door.

Turning back toward his student, Qui-Gon continued in a lowered voice. "We will continue this discussion later, Padawan."

Still avoiding eye contact, Obi-Wan started to brush by Qui-Gon, but was stopped by a firm gasp of his arm.

"I did not dismiss you, Padawan." Qui-Gon explained, as he maintained a firm grip on the boy's arm.

Obi-Wan stared once again at the floor. "I am sorry, Master," he whispered. "It will not-"

"It had _better_ not happen again." Qui-Gon interrupted, immediately realizing the anger coursing though him, as he noticed the boy faintly flinch.

Everything was getting to him, he admitted. The strain of putting up with the Premier, Healer Pasheso's threat to take Obi-Wan away from him, Obi-Wan's withdrawal and disobedience that almost led to his falling to his death. Sighing in weariness, he rubbed his course beard and silently considered the boy who stood motionless before him, head bowed, radiating absolutely nothing that the master could pick up on. It was a safe guess that the boy was as miserable as he was, but with the training bond closed off on the padawan's end, he could not be sure. They would talk later. He would make sure of that.

"We have much to talk about, Padawan. And we _will_ talk about it later. I promise you that," he said, releasing Obi-Wan's arm.

Obi-Wan kept his eyes averted to the floor. He did not look forward to that promise fulfilled. It sounded more like a threat than anything else. When Qui-Gon turned and followed the Premier into the garden's observatory, he trailed silently after him.

* * *

_His mind was in a state of shock as he walked down the Temple's hallway toward the lift. His apartment would not be far once he made it to the right floor, but then he would have to talk to Qui-Gon._

_"Padawan Kenobi." The voice came softly, and not without a trace of urgency._

_He stopped, hearing movement behind him, and knew it to be the Councilor Mace Windu approaching. _

_"Padawan, come." _

_A hand took hold of his arm and ushered him to a small meditation chamber. He went without protest, without thought almost. After he was gently pushed in a padded chair, Mace turned his back to him._

_"Where's Qui-Gon?" Mace said with heavy frustration, addressing someone else in the room._

_"Preparing the room for Dajer still he is," answered the little green master, Yoda, who was seated in another chair._

_Mace sighed loudly. "Has anybody told him?" _

_Yoda tapped his gimer stick methodically on a cushion. "No."_

_"Has anybody tried to contact him yet?" Mace began pacing the room, irritably rubbing the back of his neck. _

_"It's been done, Mace," Councilor Adi Gallia replied calmly, as she swept into the room, stopping in front of him. "He's on his way now. I commed him myself." She glanced worriedly at Obi-Wan, noting how detached the padawan appeared, his eyes wide and staring at the highly burnished floor in front of him. He looked oblivious to all that was happening around him. "How is _he_?" she inquired in a lowered voice, gesturing at the padawan._

_There was a pause of silence and absence of movement._

_Slowly, Obi-Wan's eyes rose, focusing on Adi, then Mace. They were both watching him with concerned frowns. _

_Strange how he could not remember how he had gotten back to the Temple. A thick haze veiled his most recent memories. He remembered the man he had met at the spaceport, the way the Force had seemed to numbly reverberate, becoming less distinguishable. Then . . . ._

_He did not want to remember what had happened then. _

_He had vague memories of answering the questions of the authorities afterward, but he did not even recall contacting them. Then he must have returned to the Temple. _

_He just felt so sick now, and wished all that he did remember would be lost, never be brought to thought again. It was then that he realized he was trembling. He inhaled deeply, trying to find a small measure of calm and to fight down the tremors racing through his body. "I need," he said haltingly, his eyes pleading to the two masters watching him, "to speak to . . . my Master." _

_Adi's eyelashes fluttered with empathy as she dropped to one knee in front of the padawan. "Qui-Gon is coming." Taking hold of his hands, she squeezed them. "The security force already told us what happened, but Qui-Gon does not yet know."_

_He gazed into her large blue eyes. The incredible strength and vulnerable beauty in them gave him a much-needed sense of calm, of hope._

_But that peace was shattered when the expected tall Jedi master abruptly entered the room._

_"What is this about? Where is Dajer?" Qui-Gon asked. His eyes flicked to Obi-Wan, who refused to meet his gaze._

_"Qui-Gon," Adi began, drawing everyone's attention as she stood. "Dajer . . . he . . ." she stopped, her throat choked by tears._

_"There was an accident, my friend," Mace softly took up the story. _

_"Mace, what are you saying?" came the desperate query._

_Mace opened his mouth to speak, but Qui-Gon quickly turned away and crouched in front of Obi-Wan._

_"Obi-Wan?"_

_As the padawan met the fearful eyes of his master, he felt what peace was left inside of him shrivel up, and all of his secret pain and terror slinked into the deepest part of his heart, locking itself away._

_"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon prompted again, lightly resting his hands on the padawan's shoulders. The dark hurt in the midnight eyes exposed the terrible truth that he already had guessed._

_Obi-Wan swallowed painfully. "Master," the boy said quietly, staring dully in his master's sorrowful gaze. "Master, he . . . he fell."_

* * *

"Welcome to Eroleen, Master Jinn," beamed the middle-aged women, her eyes shining brilliant tawny. To her side stood Premier Sherveld. A small squad of guards stood near them in the interior of the observatory, where tourists and other guests freely roamed about in the large circular room.

The walls were a polished bronze, with cream carved panels spaced around the room. Fanciful statues of ivory and sable stood imposingly in small windowed alcoves along the walls. A large tapestry of plum, silver, and gold hung opposite the entrance. It's depiction of artisans and minstrels added to the taste of elegance that seemed to pervade the lobby of the observatory.

"It is good to be here, M'Lady." Qui-Gon offered a polite smile and gently shook her outstretched hand. He found his eyes immediately drawn to her hair. Pale amber and piled on top of her head in a high mound of intricate braids, it was interwoven with gleaming cobalt blue beads. Interestingly odd, but definitely beautiful in an exotic way. "The Premier tells me," he went on as she shook Obi-Wan's hand, "that you are responsible for the architectural development and beautification on Rymie."

"Yes," she replied, straightening her deep blue velvet gown with one hand. "As a Regent, I was assigned this task. I've been at it for over twenty years now, and I absolutely love it."

"And Karielle does a stupendous job," Sherveld piped in. His favor of her was obvious, as his eyes had suddenly brightened when he had greeted her. "She's the best."

She laughed with elegance. "Oh, thank you, Premier. You're always so supportive."

"Yes," Sherveld added, with an affectionate smile, "but you deserve all the praise for the hard work you-" he stopped as the lights flickered twice and winked out, leaving them in the gloom of deepest murk.

A quiet murmur erupted around them in the darkness.

"Oh, dear," whispered Karielle. "We always have trouble," she said a little louder, "keeping the lights on here. It's a problem during the cold cycles."

The darkness was suddenly broken by two lights - one azure, one emerald. The two Jedi's lightsabre's hummed softly while casting dim colored shades of azure and emerald on their faces.

"Everyone stay where you are," Sherveld projected to the guests scattered throughout the room. "We shall have the lights back on soon." He turned to Qui-Gon, quietly saying, "come with me please. I know how to fix the lights, but I need a light to see where I'm going."

Nodding an assent, Qui-Gon retreated into the darkness with the Premier, leaving Karielle with Obi-Wan and a few guards standing near them. Obi-Wan's azure lightsabre kept them from being swallowed completely by shadow.

Noticing the dimness the woman stood in, Obi-Wan stepped closer to allow the illumination of his blade to latch onto her. She offered a warm smile in gratitude, which he returned politely.

"Young man," she began, drawing his eyes back to her. "You are an apprentice?"

Obi-Wan gave a short nod. "Yes, M'Lady," he quietly replied. "I am the apprentice, or padawan learner, of Master Qui-Gon Jinn."

"And you are of the Order of Jedi," she went on, in a knowing tone. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, as Obi-Wan nodded again.

He saw something close to worry cross her face, before it was quickly reschooled into a blank expression.

"I see a cloud hovering over you," her voice was quiet and urgent. "You are in danger, young Jedi." Karielle's eyes flooded with tears, sparkling blue from the sabre's light.

Surprised at the Regent's sudden and unexpected warning, Obi-Wan's eyes widened. "What," he asked with a slight hesitation, "do you mean?"

Her watering tawny eyes bore into him. "I . . . do not know. I can not see it," she whispered in a rush. "It is shadowed by darkness."

His brow furrowing, Obi-Wan stared at her in disbelief as the lights flicked on. "What are you talking about? How would you know?"

Seemingly broken from a spell, she blinked furiously and gently dabbed her tears away. "I see things sometimes," she informed him.

"You've experienced prescience before?" Obi-Wan asked, more than a little curious.

"You see, Karielle," the Premier interrupted. He walked up with Qui-Gon, to stand beside her. "I can fix the lights here as fast as anyone."

She smiled sadly, turning to him. "Yes, Premier," she answered with a sniffle. "You can." Then her eyes settled on Qui-Gon. It was apparent that the Regent was going to elaborate to Obi-Wan no further.

"Padawan?" the Jedi master's voice pierced Obi-Wan's distant thoughts.

After locking eyes with his master, the boy saw the mild reproval in the midnight blue eyes. Obi-Wan had failed to turn his lightsabre off. Quickly, he switched off the humming blade and reattached the weapon to his utility belt where it belonged. Then he clasped his hands together in front of him and dropped his gaze to the reflective teal and cream swirled marble floor.

Qui-Gon softly cleared his throat and looked to Sherveld and Karielle. "The gardens here are beautiful and well kept, M'Lady," he spoke diplomatically. "You have done a wonderful job. And Rymie is beautiful as well."

"Thank you, Master Jinn," said Karielle, with sincerity. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Jinn, and your apprentice." She spared a quick look at Obi-Wan.

"And it was a pleasure to meet you, as well." Qui-Gon gracefully bowed. Obi-Wan numbly followed his lead.

"Next," the Premier broke in smoothly, "we shall visit the Central Hall of Law. I suspect," he turned a raised brow to Qui-Gon, "that you will wish to observe our courts?"

"Yes, Premier," Qui-Gon affirmed. "All in the interest of the Republic."

"Of course," Sherveld said, then turned to the Regent. "Thank you, Karielle."

Falling into step a pace behind and to the side of his master, Obi-Wan left the observatory with the Premier and his entourage. He was dizzy with the knowledge that he could possibly be in danger, if the Regent Karielle Thyrpaen were to be believed. But, somehow, he felt that he already knew that.

As the small group strode along the flagstone path and exited the walled garden through a large scarlet gateway, a hooded figure stood obscured in the cloak of dappled shadows beneath piney, ice-draped trees, watching with intense interest.

* * *


	7. Among the Ruins

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 7-AMONG THE RUINS

The soil was moist, rich, and smelled of the dark earth. He patted it down gently, sculpting the top to be level with the lip of the small, pale blue pot that he had found in a tiny merchant shop on his way back to the hostel.

Only an hour before, he had sent Obi-Wan on an errand to pick up an item the master had purchased after he had escorted the boy back to their hostel the night they had been to the Korgill ancestral celebration. The jeweler would be closing for the night soon, and Qui-Gon believed he would have no opportunity to pick it up himself until possibly days later, and he did not know how long they would be here. Therefore, he had sent Obi-Wan to pick up the package for him.

Shortly thereafter, the Premier had been called away for more immediate business, leaving the Jedi master alone to wander leisurely back to the hostel as the descent of night crept over the city. As the deep violet shadows spilled over buildings and air vehicles, he had stopped in a few shops, the last of which he found the perfect pot and even a small bag of potting soil. Already in possession of the Sandriffa seed that the Premier had given him, it was too much for him to pass up.

Smiling, he stepped back from the low cafe table, admiring the little pot, its glazed milky surface reflecting dull light from the two bright glow lamps in the common room of their hostel suite. But the pleased smile slowly faded away.

The pale blue color of the pot held all the subtle tints of his padawan's eyes, and that was too much. He knew Obi-Wan was not going to be warming up to him any time soon. Not after the sharp reprimand that he had given the boy on the balcony at the Eroleen Gardens.

But the boy had been warned too many times before, Qui-Gon argued with himself. Not only was it a foolish trick, but it was also a frivolous use of the Force. Surely the boy realized that.

But there was more to it than that. He felt that he had failed. If Obi-Wan - the boy who had worked so hard to win his trust - would so casually disregard his master's instruction, then would he be able to trust the boy in more serious matters? No, the boy could be trusted. He did not really doubt that. But it brought spectral visions of another, long dead apprentice to life. An apprentice who had been coddled and indulged to the point of ignoring the warning signs of a weakness to give in to anger.

Xanatos.

A name that brought all the hurt and fear of betrayal as sharp and emotionally upsetting as it had been then. Qui-Gon had had no choice. The Force demanded that he stand back and let the young man choose his path, and he had obeyed it like a faithful Jedi to the end. To the end of the young man's life.

But Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan was not at all like that. He was a padawan Qui-Gon could trust with his heart. One that would ultimately _never_ betray him.

The storms of Melida/Daan had exposed that encouraging truth. There, Obi-Wan had faltered momentarily, passionately swept along in his inexperience. But he had realized the err of his ways. Obi-Wan was a Jedi. And a Jedi he would always be.

The low, steady buzz of the comm unit broke into his reverie. Walking to the unit, Qui-Gon answered the call. The wrinkled, old face of the little green master, Yoda, appeared on screen.

"Knew you to be needing advice soon, Qui-Gon," Yoda said, a twinkle of mischief in his large olive eyes. "Heard I have of your call here for me, as well as Healer Famu Pasheso's accusations."

Qui-Gon nodded once, instantly attentive to the little master. "What has the Healer said?" he inquired, unsuccessfully trying to hide his worry.

Yoda replied with a tiny sigh. "Said he has, that no longer competent to train a padawan you are."

"Yes," Qui-Gon swallowed, rubbing his temples. "I know."

"Called a meeting with the High Council, has he. Present his evidence, he will. No need for worry, Qui-Gon," Yoda soothed. His eyes held the wisdom of ages, strength and tenderness melted together in a mysterious display of power within those two orbs.

"You . . ." the younger master grasped for the right words. "Why does he want to do this, Master? I don't understand his actions. Obi-Wan needs me right now, perhaps more now than ever. How could that . . ." he struggled to find the right adjective, but instead settled for none, "that healer . . . try to take him away from me now?"

"Another patient this relates to, at least for Famu it does. Brutally raped, another padawan was years ago," Yoda explained, in reflective sorrow. "A patient of his she was. Years of therapy she had, before took her own life she did." He finished in a soft tone, betraying his sadness over the tragedy.

"I remember," Qui-Gon said, softly, with a grim expression. "Padawan Y'saba, wasn't it?" He remembered the confident young student and the way she had changed afterward. It had been heart breaking watching from a distance as she had withdrawn and become so different.

The day he had learned of her death, Qui-Gon had just emerged from a tenday's seclusion, where he had immersed himself in the presence of the Living Force. It was a spiritually refreshing event that he looked forward to every year, when he could forget the daily routines and trappings of life, and devote himself to that powerful energy that infused all things.

"Famu saw how handle Y'saba's problems, her master could not. Helplessly watched, Famu did until too late it was. Now, let another patient die he can not. Fear he does for Obi-Wan. Mishandling the situation now he is, but stand back and let another Y'saba happen he will not. Especially when never fully recovered from that, has he."

Qui-Gon nodded his understanding. Pasheso was only acting out of fear of his own failure. Fear that he had contributed to a padawan's death and fear that the circumstances could repeat themselves if he did nothing. "But what of the Council? What will they say?"

"Initial arguments support you, they do," Yoda gestured towards Qui-Gon with the gimer stick in his hand. "Yes, yes, keep Obi-Wan as apprentice most assuredly you will."

Qui-Gon sighed. A heavy burden he had not realized he'd been carrying was lifted. But, things were not totally resolved. Obi-Wan was still distant, almost cold, toward him. That situation would still need to be remedied.

As if knowing his thoughts, Yoda continued, "Talk to him, you must. Doubt not that open up eventually, he will. Stubborn you both are," he chuckled lightly, as glee danced behind his eyes. "Turn into a great Jedi Knight, he will. A good master you have been, Qui-Gon. Convince you otherwise, let no one."

"Thank you, Master," Qui-Gon smiled, his midnight blue eyes shining with a new fervor of strength.

"Now, if nothing else you need . . . ."

"I'll be fine, Master," Qui-Gon confirmed. "Thank you, and may the Force be with you."

"And with you," Yoda replied, before the connection was cut.

Sighing with relief, Qui-Gon suddenly noticed his padawan's Force signature rapidly approaching, and with it his Jedi serenity fled. Taking several slow deep breaths, he seated himself on the chocolate colored sofa and put on a mask of peace.

It was time for them to talk.

* * *

Coming to the door to their suite, Obi-Wan was surprised to sense Qui-Gon's presence inside. He had thought his master would have still been with the Premier. Taking a moment to relax and pull himself together, he keyed the entry code.

When he entered the room, he had not known what to expect, but Qui-Gon sitting calmly on the sofa was certainly not it. Cautiously, Obi-Wan walked further into the room, intending to by-pass the man on the sofa and retreat to his guest bedroom.

"Obi-Wan?"

The padawan froze at the soft address, his head bowed and body postured with uncertainty.

Seeing the boy's hesitation, Qui-Gon spoke in as calm a tone as he could muster. "Come here, please."

Obi-Wan threw a quick glance to his master.

"Please, sit down," Qui-Gon said, indicating the sofa where he sat.

Pushing aside his reluctance, the boy tramped to the sofa and sat down on its edge at the opposite end, keeping his eyes from Qui-Gon and setting the small, rectangular silver box that he had been sent to retrieve between them.

"Thank you for picking that up for me," the master smiled, indicating the shiny box.

"You're welcome, Master," Obi-Wan replied in the dutiful - and very formal - manner he had adopted since leaving Coruscant. If one had not known better, one would think that the pair had just recently met, for there was no warmth, no kinship, no trace of familiarity.

As Qui-Gon's eyes ran over his apprentice, he took note of the boy's damp robe, darkened from the fall of a light snow that had just begun outside. A fine sprinkling of melting snowflakes still covered him. Obi-Wan set stiffly with his shoulders slightly hunched, evidently still cold from the dropping temperatures.

Concerned, Qui-Gon stood. "You're cold, Padawan." He crossed the room to open a closet. "I saw some blankets in here, if you wish-"

"No," Obi-Wan protested. "I'm fine." He winced at the phrase that he apparently repeated too much for Qui-Gon's liking. "I'll be okay," he rephrased the response.

Qui-Gon closed the closet door and looked at Obi-Wan. The boy was still staring sullenly at the floor. "How about some tea? I'll go make some," he added quickly.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to refuse, but Qui-Gon had already disappeared into the narrow kitchen. He sighed, then took several deep slow breaths, searching for the peace that remained elusive.

Once he had filled two mugs of steaming hot, byreena spiced tea, Qui-Gon hurried back to his waiting padawan. "Here," he held one mug out to Obi-Wan, who took it after a short hesitation. Then the Jedi master settled himself back on the sofa.

Obi-Wan still would not look at him. Shifting to more fully face his padawan, the master considered his words carefully before speaking. "Obi-Wan," he began delicately, "remember earlier today when I found you leaning off the balcony at Eroleen?"

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan answered evenly, but Qui-Gon could sense the underlining resentment.

Qui-Gon hid the urge to frown. "I behaved poorly toward you when I let my anger control my actions, and I want to apologize to you for that." He paused to let his words sink in and did not fail to notice the tiny crease form between Obi-Wan's brows. Then, he went on. "I admit that I felt fear. Fear that you could have fallen and died. And fear that I had failed in your training," he added, softly. "However, I do not apologize for reprimanding you for your disobedience. Your actions were careless and inexcusable, and deserving of censure. But I did not give you a chance to explain earlier, so if you have anything you would like to say, I would be more than willing to listen and try to understand without any preconceptions."

With that said, Qui-Gon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked expectantly at his student who sat motionless at the other end of the sofa, staring at the floor in front of him.

Confused, Obi-Wan simply sat there, unsure of what to say. He had expected Qui-Gon to do any manner of things after his blatant disobedience earlier. Not only had his master apologized, but was now asking him for an explanation for his own actions. What could he tell Qui-Gon? That he simply felt like it? That he wanted to just escape his troubles? It all sounded so lame.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon's serene voice came again. "If there is any reason you did what you did, I want to know. I know that you would not do something like without a reason. You've matured so much since you were fifteen."

"There was no reason." Obi-Wan's voice was tight. His hand slipped around the end of his padawan braid, fingering it tightly.

"Obi-Wan, I am your Jedi master-"

"I don't want to talk," the padawan decreed, bolting up from the sofa - an action that sent a splash of tea from his mug to the soft, pine-green carpet below. He did not even care to keep the rudeness from his voice. After a quick glance at the spill on the floor, he threw the mug against the wall, smashing it into numerous pieces. The hot liquid ran down the wall in the now deathly silence.

It took Qui-Gon a moment to recover from the shock of his apprentice's lack of restraint - not to mention the normally respectful padawan behaving so discourteously toward him. He tore his gaze from the new stain on the wall, to the boy's back that was turned toward him. Now it was Qui-Gon's turn to let his frustration bleed through his voice. "And why not, my Padawan?" he said, picking up the conversation from before.

"Because I just don't." Obi-Wan whirled around, finally meeting those piercing sapphire eyes with a glare of defiance. "You wouldn't let me to talk to you earlier at the Gardens. I can't talk when I want to, but only when you let me." The sharpness to his voice was clear.

Battling to maintain a sense of peace in the surprising drift of the conversation, Qui-Gon paused before answering. "You're my apprentice," he said, easily. It was simple statement, but carried with it so much weight.

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed. "And I have to do everything you tell me," he shot back.

"Unless I overstep my bounds, yes," Qui-Gon said, with just the desired amount of authority.

"It's not fair," the boy exclaimed, his gently indented chin stubbornly set.

"It's not supposed to be. We're Jedi," said Qui-Gon in his maddeningly calm voice. He had reached beyond the building tension in the room, to the deep wells of peace offered by the Force. It was his responsibility to take control of the situation, he realized. Obi-Wan was still an apprentice. The boy's actions were proving that.

"I hate that," said Obi-Wan, with one breath.

"What? That we're Jedi?"

Obi-Wan shut his eyes. "No," he said, softly and opened his tempestuous eyes again. "I hate the way you can cut me off, the way you can make me do whatever you want, whenever you want to." Once again, a mutinous aquamarine gaze bore into Qui-Gon.

"What specifically are you referring to?" Then seeing Obi-Wan's obvious reluctance to open up, Qui-Gon added, "I give you permission to speak freely."

Obi-Wan hesitated, unsure of whether to go on. It was not often that he was given leave to speak his mind, but he usually took the opportunity when it was given. "You cut me off . . . and threatened me." There was an angry hurt in his voice.

Qui-Gon tilted his head in puzzlement. "Threatened you?"

Obi-Wan stood still, a ragged breath the only answer.

"What do you mean? When?" Qui-Gon implored, with genuine interest.

"At Eroleen," Obi-Wan knew he had to go on now. "When I started to leave, and you said it had better not happen again." The words rushed out of him.

"Obi-Wan, I was talking about leaning off of balconies. I did not mean it as a threat. And the fact that you had promised me years ago to never do it again. I am sorry if I hurt you. But I was upset that you had broken your word to me, and I was also upset that you could have died." Qui-Gon sighed theatrically. "If you wouldn't close yourself off to me, then perhaps you would have understood."

"I don't want you messing with my head. And I wish you'd stop trying to figure out what I'm thinking," Obi-Wan spat, sensing Qui-Gon's tentative probing of their bond abruptly end. "Don't you know how annoying that is? It's all your fault, anyway."

If Qui-Gon had not been confused before, he would definitely be now. "My fault?" He stared at Obi-Wan for a moment, trying to understand the recalcitrant boy's reasoning. "Wait, wait. What exactly are you talking about?"

"I . . . ." The padawan couldn't say it. He just couldn't. But he wanted so badly to let it all go, to be free of this deep seated pain. Swallowing hard, he noticed the wild fluttering of his heart. "I'm talking about you . . . making me-" his voice broke, and he looked away.

Sensing that he needed to remain quiet, Qui-Gon waited, stilling himself until his padawan could continue.

Obi-Wan took a couple of deep, ragged breaths. "You," his eyes pooled with tears, "made me . . . go to the spaceport and . . . ." He couldn't go on. Choked by the bleakness in his heart, his breath hitched slightly, and he whispered, "and I _hate _you for it." He froze, barely breathing, and cast his gaze to the floor.

Qui-Gon frantically tried to piece together what Obi-Wan was saying. "Obi-Wan . . . ."

"No," the padawan warned, his voice gushing with emotion. He blinked back salty tears and looked deep into Qui-Gon's eyes with all of his pain exposed in their depths. "Just leave me alone."

"Obi-Wan, please talk to me," Qui-Gon said, hoarsely.

"No. Just," Obi-Wan drew a trembling breath and his voice faded to a whisper, "leave me alone." He felt weak with despair. And so sick.

In one graceful movement, Qui-Gon set his mug on the floor and was on his feet, moving to stand in front of Obi-Wan. "Padawan," he offered softly in solace. "Let me help you."

Eyes blazing anger and hurt and flooded with a multitude of other unknown emotions suddenly pinned the Jedi master, just as he had lifted an arm to touch the boy's shoulder. He froze in his movement and met the boy's gaze squarely.

"Like you helped me almost get . . . raped?" Obi-Wan countered, in a quivering whisper. "No. I don't want your help."

Qui-Gon lightly settled his large hand on the boy's shoulder, decidedly undeterred by his padawan's rampant emotion. But as Obi-Wan stepped back out of reach, his hand slid free.

"Just leave me alone," Obi-Wan moaned, with such despondence that Qui-Gon felt his heart ache. The boy's eyes were full of anguish and his hands were twisted into white-knuckled fists. He was faintly trembling in his abject misery. "Just leave me alone," he panted in a near sob. Finally, he backed away to the door and fled down the hall.

Qui-Gon suddenly noticed the unnatural quiet of the room.

* * *


	8. Blur of Days

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 8-BLUR OF DAYS

Stumbling through the dangerously increasing blur of snowfall, Obi-Wan ran with no clear direction. He was simply running. And sliding. And periodically falling, as he lost his balance. It was not that he wanted to run. It was that he wanted to get as far - and as quickly - away from Qui-Gon as possible.

He had said things he had no intention of saying. He did not really hate Qui-Gon. It had just slipped out - out of anger, out of frustration. And knowing that Qui-Gon was surely hurt by such harsh words pained him all the more.

He had never wanted to blame his master for the attack by Tarren and did not even know that he had until it slipped out a few hours before. He had never wanted to make things like they were, not like this, not hurting Qui-Gon. His master could not have been responsible for it any more than he could. Qui-Gon was a good man, a good master. He did not make Tarren attack him. He could not. Obi-Wan had been in a fog, obscuring the lines of truth, driven by an irrational desire to strike back, to defeat the pain deep inside. And Qui-Gon had simply been there, hoping to help. But the padawan had bottled up the emotional turmoil until it had become too much to keep inside and poured it all out on Qui-Gon. Finally, the root of his hostility toward his master was plainly revealed, to Qui-Gon, and to himself - and he hated what it had done to him.

But for now he ran. Alone. Away from Qui-Gon. Away from the universe, if he could.

If he could only take it back and never blame anyone but Tarren, never form a barrier between himself and the most important person in his life. If only . . . .

As he pushed himself to his feet again, after taking another spill from the slippery sheet of ice coating the wide sidewalks along the streets, he heard the bubbling of laughter near. He looked up, attempting to locate its source and identified a bright glowing sign of scarlet and lime hanging from a metal pole protruding from the wall of a building. The sign, while not large, swung with an ear-aching screech in the blowing winds and whirling currents of snowflakes.

"Here," a joy-filled voice drifted from the interior of the building. "Have another."

Laughter erupted again.

Now on his feet, the padawan stepped hesitantly toward the sign and sounds of life. When he was close enough to see the place through the veil of frozen precipitation, he peered through a transparisteel window and saw that it appeared to be some sort of an eating establishment. There was a hand-full of patrons scattered about the small interior, while a bar ran alongside one wall and several small round tables littered the floor.

After a quick look back to the falling snow, Obi-Wan entered the little restaurant. He walked guardedly towards the bar, as eyes surreptitiously followed his movements. He was aware of the scrutiny, but gave no indication that he did or that it concerned him. Perhaps he could stay here until the storm lessened.

"What'll ya have?" asked the young women behind the counter, in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone. Her light brown eyes, smoothly capped by coppery green shadows across her lids, shone seductively from a nest of long ebony lashes. When the padawan met her eyes, she flipped a lock of her brunette hair behind her ear and winked flirtatiously.

"What do you have . . ." Obi-Wan softly cleared his throat, "to eat?" he added quickly.

The girl pulled a colorful card from underneath the counter and placed it in front of him. "The food processor's closed, but anything else you see, you can have," she drawled, her tone the texture of silk.

He was careful to ignore her gaze as he looked over the pictures. "Do you know if this," he asked, pointing to the olive drink that looked like the ones he had seen children drinking at the ancestral fete the day before, "is a drink they had at Korgill?"

"Yeah," answered the girl, after a quick glance. "They have it there every year." She looked him up and down with a small frown. "Are ya sure ya want it?"

Moments later, Obi-Wan wondered if it had been such a wise choice. At first, he had welcomed the numbness, the dulling of his pain. But the fuzz that had begun almost immediately after the first sip had not lessened. Even the bitter taste of the intoxicant remained stubbornly on his tongue, while its repugnant smell lingered on his breath. And that was . . . how long ago? He didn't know, but he would have stayed in the warmth of the eatery, had they not closed and ushered him out. Now he wandered aimlessly along the snowswept streets. Fortunately, the storm had eased to a fine fluttering of flakes.

There was no one else in sight. But that was not a surprising thing considering the falling temperatures and the lateness of the hour. Through the hazy vagueness of his thoughts, he felt that he should find some place to stay, but everything appeared to be closed up for the night.

Almost as if in answer, the large scarlet gateway of the Eroleen Gardens rose in the distance. He quickened his pace and passed through the large gate that was not locked. The Gardens were deserted and lonely, as he had expected. Hard-lined shapes of tall trees trailed along the walk, their limbs splayed as black twisted silhouettes against the pale carpet of snow. Crunching over the fresh snowdrifts, he headed to the observatory.

* * *

As the room slowly came back into his awareness, intense blue eyes opened. For a moment, they stared ahead, seeing something elsewhere, something beyond the walls of the room. They blinked twice and fell to the single candle flickering silently on the floor in front of him. A simple object to help his focus. It had been necessary, given the emotional attachment he shared with his padawan.

Smothering the flame with his fingertips, he rose to his feet and crossed to the door, pausing only to retrieve the small silver box from the sofa and stuff it in a pocket beneath his robe. Then he left the comfort of the hostel.

The air was crisp and cold as he trod along the sidewalks. Snow no longer fell, but there was an abundance that had loosely gathered on the ground, collecting on his boots and on the bottom of his robe as it trailed across the snow-covered ground. He wrapped his robe firmly around him to retain a measure of warm.

As he walked, a flurry of thoughts flashed through his head. A rich tapestry of memories of their lives together - all of the sweet joys and great accomplishments, the needed companionship. Even with all of the misunderstandings and disagreements - some of them as heated as any Temple pairing - scattered throughout their relationship, he did not want to forget a single treasured thread of the life he had woven with Obi-Wan - his precious padawan.

He knew his mind was wondering, and that it would only hamper his attempts to find the boy. In an effort to refocus his concentration on the task at hand, he sent out Force tendrils, searching for that familiar presence that had become such an important part of his existence. It would do no good to dwell on the argument they had had. That would serve only to distract him from his present mission.

Far ahead, he spotted a figure trampling through the snow. Though the suns had fallen and the lovely stars glimmered shyly overhead, he was sure it was his padawan. Glow globes were spaced along the walk, so it was not overly dark, and after five years in close company with the boy, the outline perfectly matched his description. Just as he had thought, Obi-Wan had run in the direction that they always left from the hostel.

Afraid the boy would flee if he saw him, Qui-Gon cloaked his presence and increased his speed to gain ground. He reached the gate at Eroleen, where he had seen Obi-Wan enter. There was no sight of him anywhere, but the disturbances left plainly in the snow indicated he had gone to the observatory.

He followed the footprints to the tall building and checked the door. It was locked, but that would be no problem against a subtle Force manipulation. He quickly attained entrance and crept over the threshold, immediately delighted to discover it was heated inside.

Sweeping the lobby with his eyes, he saw that it was dimly lit, with only overnight lights on. He cautiously slid along the slick wall, his senses outstretched, searching.

Catching movement from the other side of the circular room, Qui-Gon quickly spun around. A crease appeared on his brow as he saw one of the statues tilt over and fall from its cylindrical pedestal. It came crashing down in a sharp cracking sound, small broken pieces clattering over the smooth floor, one tiny ivory piece coming to rest at his boots. An all-too-familiar gasp followed, as his padawan's form staggered back from the pedestal he had inadvertently bumped into.

"Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon spoke kindly, hoping the boy would listen and not run away.

He saw the boy hesitate, then fall back into deeper shadow. Qui-Gon stepped cautiously closer.

"Go away," Obi-Wan commanded, from the penumbrae of an alcove. "Please, Master," he added softly.

"Obi-Wan. Don't send me away," Qui-Gon pleaded. "We need to talk."

"We've already been through this, Master." Obi-Wan sounded tired. "I don't want to talk. And I don't want your help."

Qui-Gon sighed. "Please, Padawan. It's apparent that you've been holding in some bad feelings toward me. I think I'm starting to understand that that's why you've been so distant."

There was no response.

"You've been blaming me for what happened to you with Tarren," Qui-Gon stated gently, as he moved closer.

"And why not?" Obi-Wan called from the darkness. He realized how foolish it sounded, had realized at the hostel just before he had stormed out.

"Yes," the Jedi master acceded, with quiet honesty. "I suppose I did cause that. And I guess, from a certain point of view, that you could blame me for that."

Moving around the broken statue on the floor, Qui-Gon took another step closer to the alcove where Obi-Wan hid. It was steeped in shadows, but he could just make out the darker form of his padawan.

"I am . . . sorry, Obi-Wan, for what happened to you," the tall Jedi master admitted, letting his sorrow seep into his tone. It was not hard to do, considering how much he guessed Obi-Wan had suffered emotionally. "I know I cannot completely understand, but remember that I felt it and saw it when your shields gave out on Lorminth. I know that it was a terrible thing, but please don't shut me out of your life."

"Please, just go," Obi-Wan cried. He stepped back, intending to move further away from Qui-Gon, but bumped into another pedestal and stumbled against the wall behind him. Dizzy from the intoxicant, he slid down the smooth wall and sat hard on the floor.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon exclaimed. He rushed to Obi-Wan's side, taking advantage of the boy's lapse.

"Go away," Obi-Wan said, as Qui-Gon's hands touched him. He jerked back, trying to move away, but strong hands held him as the room spun. "Please . . . don't, Master," he said, reluctantly meeting the older man's eyes. "Don't pity me," he panted, even as he ceased struggling. "I can't bear it."

"Pity you?" Qui-Gon saw the blaze of hurt in those aquamarine eyes. Gone was the defiance and anger that was there earlier. He frowned, then said, "Obi-Wan, is that what you see?"

The boy ducked his head in shame and did not answer.

"Oh, child. I do not pity you. I love you, my son. I love you," Qui-Gon half whispered, kissing the silken strands of the boy's hair, the backs of fingers brushing a smooth cheek. "Obi-Wan?" A shade of incredulity in the timbre, followed by a tiny sniff. He pulled back, searching for his padawan's elusive gaze.

The boy slumped against the wall further, sure that his newly discovered inebriation only disappointed his master.

Qui-Gon gathered the now acquiescent body against him. "What have you had, Obi-Wan?" His breath blew the sweat-dampened spikes of the boy's hair. There was no trace of judgement.

"Just a drink," Obi-Wan said bleakly, the words slightly muffled by the layers of tunic and robe. "It was only one," Obi-Wan added, when Qui-Gon gave no reply. "It was that olive colored drink the children had. I didn't think it would be so strong." Yet even as he spoke, he felt himself quickly sobering.

"Oh," was all Qui-Gon said.

Confused by his shifting emotions, Obi-Wan relaxed, content to be enfolded in Qui-Gon's embrace, to feel the gentle strokes along his back. How he needed to feel someone care for him, to not judge. It was so comforting to feel loved and cherished. Yet it compounded the unforgiveness he had held for Qui-Gon into an aching numbness, made him feel the chilling reality of his world. He needed to feel peace within himself again, to - if he could - let go of the unforgiveness.

He remembered the lessons on forgiveness while in the crèche. Unforgiveness never makes anything better. It only rots inside you, consuming your very self, and rarely harms the one you're unforgiving toward. In this case, however, it did harm someone. Someone he had truly not wanted to harm, and had had no right to.

"Obi-Wan, I am sorry . . . for everything," Qui-Gon's words were spoken softly, his chin resting on the top of Obi-Wan's head. "If you cannot forgive me, then please tell me what I can do to make things better for you."

The padawan sighed, clarity of thought blurring out the blind haze he had been living in for too long. "Oh, Master. It's not you. It's me." Then whispered, "it's always me."

"No, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said, slightly stern. "I had a hand in what happened."

"But you couldn't have known," Obi-Wan protested.

"Nor could you."

"Yes, I could," the padawan challenged, his jaw setting in determination. "If I'd been more on guard, more in the moment . . ."

"Or, if I'd been less in the moment," countered Qui-Gon, a little lightly.

"No, Master," Obi-Wan's tone was serious, with self-deprecation. "I am sorry. I don't hate you."

Qui-Gon continued gently rubbing the boy's back. "I know, my Padawan. I know."

"And I'm . . . sorry I blamed you. I . . . didn't want to. I _don't_ want to." Unconsciously, Obi-Wan fingered the length of his braid. "I want to forgive you. I know it's not right."

Seeing the insecure gesture, Qui-Gon gently settled his hand over his padawan's. Obi-Wan looked down at the woven strand, realizing what he was doing.

"I know, Padawan;" said Qui-Gon softly, as he removed his own hand.

Obi-Wan dropped his hand from the braid and closed his eyes. Then opening them, he gazed into eyes that shone steady with affection. He gently pulled away from Qui-Gon to better face him. "My behavior recently has been . . . insolent," he said quietly, sincerity in his tone. "I am sorry for it. I had no right for my actions, as they were inexcusable and unbecoming of a Padawan of the Jedi Order. I ask for your forgiveness, Master." When he saw the acceptance and small nod from Qui-Gon, he continued. "Master?" Obi-Wan ventured, feeling the increasingly faster pace of his heart.

"Yes, Padawan?" Qui-Gon heard the tightness in Obi-Wan's voice, knew there was something that the boy was anxious to tell.

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably and licked his dry lips. "There is something else. Something I saw." As soon as the words left, he felt the knotting of his stomach. He wanted to tell this, but it was so hard. So hard to breathe. So hard to find even a spark of serenity.

Tilting his head, Qui-Gon sat back on his heels. "What?"

After a difficult swallow, Obi-Wan said, "I . . . I saw T-Tarren." He forced the name out, almost shivering at having spoken it allowed.

Qui-Gon was still, an eyebrow arched in concern. "When?"

"The first day we were here, at Korgill," Obi-Wan explained, a little uncertain of what his master would say.

"Are you sure?" There were shades of unbelief in Qui-Gon's voice, and he mentally berated himself for it. He knew his padawan needed to feel trusted now.

Obi-Wan's eyes cast downward. He felt sure Qui-Gon did not believe him. "I even dreamed about what he really looked like, Master. _Before_ we came here, when we were still at the Temple," he reported, allowing the dismay he felt to filter through.

This was so much for Qui-Gon to process. Sensing the future was not one of his strengths. Other Jedi had been known to see visions, to dream dreams, and to even foretell of future events, but Qui-Gon's experience had never touched such mystical things. He adhered to the present, living in every second, guided blindly by the mysterious leading of the Force.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Obi-Wan asked, raising eyes, storming pale blue in the dim lighting.

"Padawan-"

"I knew you wouldn't," the boy said, in a voice thick with emotion.

"Obi-Wan," said Qui-Gon, adding a trace of masterly authority. "I can not pretend to know of such things as night-visions. I focus on the here and now. But," he raised his hand to forestall interruption and continued when the boy pressed his lips tightly together, "I know that such things _do_ happen."

"Then you don't think I'm crazy." Obi-Wan was unable to say it, except by a slightly unsteady voice.

"No, I don't think you're crazy." Qui-Gon stifled a small chuckle.

Obi-Wan's troubled eyes searched the older man's face, seeing the tired lines. "You . . . don't?"

"No, Obi-Wan," the master shook his head, honestly.

"But you don't believe I saw . . . ."

"No," Qui-Gon answered, rather succinctly. "Tarren is dead."

Obi-Wan just stared at him. He wanted to believe Tarren was dead. He really did. But he could not simply ignore what he had seen. "Master, I know what I saw," he stated confidently. "But there is more," he pushed on, wanting to release all of the secrets he had kept hidden away. "Also, since we landed here, I've been feeling . . . _something_, like a darkness . . . that I don't understand. And then, Regent Thyrpaen told me I was in danger."

Qui-Gon's eyes widened, his worry apparent. "We don't know how trustworthy the Regent is, but this is not something that should be ignored. Perhaps I should talk to her. And as far as the darkness you've been sensing, I think you should meditate on it. Have you?"

Obi-Wan lowered his gaze to the floor. "No," he answered softly. "Meditation has been . . . difficult, at best," he admitted, feeling exponentially better now as the communication with his master returned to how it had once been.

On impulse, he slowly dropped the mental shields he had erected to keep Qui-Gon out, each one falling away to expose more of his inner self, down as close to the vulnerable psyche as possible without pouring himself completely out. He felt so sated with relief, that his eyes met those of his master bravely, with no more embarrassment or self-doubt. He felt light and unburdened again. Elusive as peace had been, it now trickled through him as cleansing drops washing upon his soul.

Qui-Gon sensed the stirring of their training bond, and sent pulses of joy back to the padawan. "We should return to our room and meditate. I will help you. We'll both feel better. I think all of this stress has been hard on us both." Qui-Gon shifted to rise, then stopped, dropping back to the floor. "Oh, I almost forgot." He tucked a hand beneath his robe. When the hand resurfaced, it held the small silvery box that Obi-Wan had retrieved earlier for Qui-Gon. He held the box out.

Obi-Wan shot a mixed look of surprise and confusion at Qui-Gon. "Master?"

Qui-Gon nodded once. "It's for you."

When Obi-Wan took the box, Qui-Gon watched as traces of long-absent joy glowed in the boy's eyes. For several seconds, Obi-Wan merely stared at it, holding it as one would a precious relic.

"Well, open it," Qui-Gon urged him.

With a fragile smile, Obi-Wan opened the box. Inside was a shiny silver bracelet. At a loss for words, he pulled it from the box and looked back at Qui-Gon.

"See the inscription," Qui-Gon pointed, indicating the letters spaced along the links. He glanced at his padawan, who was staring in wonder at the words.

"I love you, my Padawan, my beloved son," Qui-Gon spoke them aloud, injecting affection into them.

Obi-Wan responded with a shaky smile, bewildered at the strange circumstances that had strengthened their familial bond. "I love you too, Master," he said, a little sheepishly.

Time seemed to stretch, fold in upon itself as Qui-Gon smiled.

In the beauty of that moment, the window beside them violently imploded, as shards of broken transparisteel shot across the circular lobby in a graphic spray.

Out of instinct, Qui-Gon threw his body across Obi-Wan, shielding him. Then, an excruciating roar of raking pain shackled their bodies and minds, as their touch to the Force was suddenly jolted with searing agony. They were helpless to do anything but writhe in torment. And soon, by the mercy of the Force, they quickly fell from consciousness.

* * *


	9. Fear Upon the Wind

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

Note: the chapter title was borrowed from the song called 'Run', by David Meece.

* * *

CHAPTER 9-FEAR UPON THE WIND

He awoke to an emptiness - a frightening lack of connection to everything. By the constricting way it felt, he knew something was hindering his access to the Force. He had managed to keep his eyes closed and himself perfectly still, in the dire case that someone might be observing him. As a Jedi, he had been trained how to handle potentially dangerous circumstances such as captivity, and knew that that was likely his situation. He was sure it had been a Force-disrupter that was used on he and his master to capture them. The pounding ache of his head could have been from his hangover, but his entire body throbbed with incessant pain.

Taking stock of himself, he immediately noted the air sticky and a smothering warmth, and he could just inhale enough for a pained gulp of air. He noticed the trickling of sweat down his sides and the unforgiving metal that encircled his wrists. Then he realized he was lying down with his arms above his head.

He heard footsteps, the clomp and scratch of leather soles and heels upon a hard surface, then the sounds stopped nearby. Too near. Gathering as much calm as he could, Obi-Wan opened his eyes and held his breath at the sight before him.

"Welcome, Padawan Kenobi. It's so nice to see you again," came the oily textured voice.

Obi-Wan knew the Force was not within grasp, knew serenity would not come - knew _that_ as soon as he had identified the man before him. But even as he stared dumbly, a very scared part of him inside screamed in angry denial that none of this was real.

"It _has_ been a while," the man said smugly, eyes dark and hard, hair raven black misted through with silver. "But not long enough for me to have forgotten." He stepped closer, now at the side of the bed, towering over the padawan. His gray coat was elaborately trimmed in copper and emerald highlights, and loose ebony pants were tucked in gray knee-high boots. He was shades of darkness in contrast to the pale colors of the surrounding room.

It looked like a rented apartment. The sparse furnishings of a metal post bed, matching light wood dresser and desk, the heavy argent curtains, and few personal effects scattered about the room. A large floor glow-lamp of bronze with a thick frosted white shade illuminated the room.

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to say something, anything, but could not find the strength to speak. He watched in silent agony as the smoky dark eyes raked over his body, and had to sharply inhale for air as he felt his head growing light.

The man slowly sat on the edge of the bed, never breaking eye contact with the padawan.

With only thoughts of escape, Obi-Wan heard the metallic clink of chains and felt the limiting of the restraints as he pulled them taut, in a vain attempt to move away.

Ignoring his captive's struggle, the man went on, very deliberately. "You know, you almost killed me. I honestly thought I was going to die when you pushed me over the railing." Eyes set in a face chiseled in hard lines bore a dark piercing glare that made the padawan shiver. "Luckily," the man continued, "I landed in a garbage scow. It broke my fall, but still I suffered several broken bones. Since that day, I have looked with great interest to meeting you again."

Obi-Wan swallowed convulsively and forced himself to breathe. The worst of his nightmares had come to life. Tarren had become bigger in his mind than he had been when he had first met the man on Coruscant. And that swollen memory now had the strength of a billion hells.

"Yes," Tarren smiled darkly, his raven black brows rising elegantly. "You _do_ know who I am. My face?" He scrubbed a hand against his tan cheek. "Well, changing it back was no more difficult than it was to change it the first time. A simple payment to a low-life in a morgue was all it took to make it look like I died. Or rather, that Quaykin had died. And a pathetic drunk who had poisoned himself was sent to you Jedi in my stead."

Obi-Wan thought back to that funeral. He remembered that the body had been wrapped, citing that the fall had left the body in an undesirable condition. No one had actually seen whose body had burned up. It could be true, his mind whirled. In a frantic attempt to suppress the shudders that threatened to eclipse his control, he nervously recited in his mind prayers for serenity that his master had drilled into him through the years. The Force was still there, he reminded himself, whether he could feel it or not.

"But don't worry," the captor said, the words floating as through a tube through the quiet of the small, brightly lit room. "I won't kill you. I was never going to kill you. That's totally up to another individual who is immensely interested in you, and has been for quite some time."

"Why?" Obi-Wan found himself asking.

Tarren seemed to take a liking to the padawan's curiosity. "I can't say, but I've already placed a dark imprint upon your mind for him to access when he comes for you."

Obi-Wan blinked hard in shock.

"Oh, I didn't do that_ now_," Tarren elucidated, with a crafty smile. "I did that on Coruscant when your shields were easily penetrable because you weren't expecting such an attack. It was quite easy, actually." His smirk turned cruel.

Obi-Wan remembered the feelings of darkness he had sensed recently and the loss of Force control on the balcony at Eroleen. For days now the darkness that had become stronger in his awareness.

"Valan Quaykin knew nothing about it," said Tarren, sounding almost bored. "But my current employer knew about Valan and his plan somehow, and asked me to fulfill his desires for this imprint. I have some Force sense, so he placed the imprint on me and instructed me on how to transfer it to you. Now we simply have to wait for him to come for you. But until then, I have something that might interest you."

Obi-Wan watched nervously as the man pulled something from his pocket. The object glinted silvery as light reflected off its surface.

"I love you, my Padawan, my beloved son," the man read aloud. "How sweet," he mocked, delicately fingering the links of the bracelet. "I suppose it's from Qui-Gon Jinn, is it not?" He glanced at Obi-Wan, then back to the bracelet. "No matter. It's mine now. It should fetch me a few credits, at the least."

Obi-Wan did not notice where Tarren put the bracelet, as he kept his eyes averted to the ceiling. "Where is Qui-Gon?" Obi-Wan managed to say quietly, so as to keep his voice steady.

"That's of no concern to you anymore. You are not your own, as you will eventually learn."

Suddenly, Tarren had a large dagger in his hand. He placed the tip of the blade firmly to Obi-Wan's throat, forcing the padawan's chin upward to expose the delicate throat, his face mere inches from Obi-Wan's. "There is no escape, Padawan. Not with this," he tapped the metal of the Force-inhibiting collar that was around Obi-Wan's neck. Then he grabbed Obi-Wan's padawan braid and pulled it painfully tight.

"And you won't need this any longer," Tarren said. He removed the blade from his captive's throat and placed it at the tip of the braid, just behind Obi-Wan's ear.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened at the threat of losing the symbolic strand. "Don't," he protested weakly, gasping as he heard the hairs snipped apart and felt the pull on the braid lessen, then watched in shocked disbelief as Tarren produced the freed braid before his eyes.

The padawan's gaze slowly traveled its length, remembering every time Qui-Gon had supplied him with a new band to place around it as it had grown longer and in need of one. A story of their relationship told in a woven strand of hair.

Tarren put away the dagger and produced a lighter. Flipping if on, a small orange flame flickered to life, dancing silently.

Watching in horror, Obi-Wan saw Tarren thrust the ginger braid into the flame. The tiny fire jumped and spread to the crisp strand, curling and blackening it as it was consumed.

Tarren was careful to keep the braid where Obi-Wan could see it until it had burned up to his fingertips. Then with a flick of his wrist, he tossed it to the floor, where the last remnants of it turned to ashes.

Obi-Wan stared in shock at the spot on the floor until a brutal hand clasped his chin, turning his head back to face Tarren.

"We never finished what we started, you know," Tarren said softly, his thumb lightly fingering the small cleft in the padawan's chin, then his hand drifted down to caress Obi-Wan's neck. "And what better revenge for nearly killing me?"

Obi-Wan pulled futilely at the chains, his hands fisted. "You perverted son-of-a-Hutt," he said through clinched teeth, while his eyes flared to lucent blue.

Suddenly the dagger appeared again at his throat, the sharpened edge of the blade threatening to do harm. Obi-Wan held his breath and squeezed shut his eyes.

"No one can save you," Tarren whispered, speaking slowly, precisely. "Not your master. Not even the Force. But don't worry. You can see Jinn after we're done. And you can tell him all about what we've done."

Obi-Wan felt hope draining out of him, and he suddenly felt weak and sick with despair. Physically, he was about to be used, but - worse yet - somewhere deep inside, another's dark signature lay dormant.

A lecherous hand trailed across his sweat-drenched tunic, down to his sash and tabard. The hand clutched them while the dagger slipped beneath, angling upward to slash the cloth apart.

The padawan closed his eyes, closed his mind, but then a tiny whisper of hope eased into his ears. The hand and the dagger left, and suddenly Tarren was on his feet, turning away to answer the buzz of a comm call.

The padawan watched in disbelief and almost cried from relief, no matter how brief that respite may be. Forcing air in his lungs, he let out a ragged breath.

"Thank you," Obi-Wan whispered to the Force.

He tried to turn his thoughts away from where he was, away from the looming darkness, but all he could feel were sinister walls closing around him. He felt alone and lost in a vacuum of doom. When traces of the conversation drifted over to him, he found himself listening.

"The boy is _not_ to be harmed," a raspy voice said.

"He will not be-"

"See that he is not. And do not underestimate him this time. You have done well, Tarren."

"Thank you, My Lord."

Obi-Wan turned his head to see Tarren facing him, the comm transmission apparently over. Eyes tainted with hate stared at the boy chained to the bed. Obi-Wan returned the look with a glower and set jaw.

Tarren blinked with introspection and crossed to the door, opening it. "Put the padawan with the other Jedi," he ordered to someone unseen.

* * *


	10. Touch of Shadows

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 10-TOUCH OF SHADOWS

He was trembling, knew he had been since he'd first seen Tarren, but had not been able to stop. Maybe they hadn't noticed, maybe . . . . Or maybe it didn't matter anymore.

With wrists still shackled and ankles now hobbled by manacles, he was practically being dragged down a long narrow, drab hallway past sets of closed doors by two burly men with shaven heads. They hadn't beaten him, but they weren't given to gentility. From the time they had unchained him from that evil bed and hauled him from Tarren's presence, cruel hands had groped and pinched with bruising force.

He hadn't fought them. He knew it would only gain him more maltreatment, and the end of the hallway wasn't far . . . no matter how many needless stops they made. Besides, they were taking him to Qui-Gon, and that was all that mattered.

"Here we go, kid."

He was pushed to the wall beside one of the doors, his cheek pressed against the cool smooth permacrete - a welcome change from the sweltering warmth of where he had been. While one of the men unlocked the door, the other held him firmly in place. He could hear the deep breathing of the man behind him, could feel the heat from the body, the puffs of breath, the eyes on his back.

The door slid open to reveal a small dim filthy cell lit by a hanging teardrop lamp. Its amber tint pooled sickly shades on the room's only occupant - an elegant figure sitting in one corner. Chains similarly bound the Jedi master, yet even in these dismal conditions the grace and unshakable composure of his master was not diminished.

Obi-Wan dropped his gaze, knowing that he could not keep up that same kind of appearance, ashamed of his own apparent vulnerability.

Qui-Gon's gaze slid from his padawan to the two men pushing the boy through the door. He watched as the taller one hooked a scratched-up boot in the chain between Obi-Wan's ankles while shoving the boy forward. Obi-Wan crashed to the cold stone floor, his shackled hands only marginally breaking his fall. Sounds of spiteful laughter faded as the two men disappeared behind the closed door.

Qui-Gon remained quiet as Obi-Wan slowly pushed himself up, settling in a kneeling position with shoulders sagging and head bowed.

Qui-Gon took in the appearance of his student. Obi-Wan's robe had been taken, just as his had, but distress hung about the boy like a heavy shroud and, in the jaundiced light, he looked all the more wounded.

"Obi-Wan?"

"Yes, Master?" Obi-Wan softly answered, with lowered eyes trained on his heavy black shackles.

"Obi-Wan, did . . ." Qui-Gon searched for a delicate way to phrase it. "What did . . . what happened?" He was aware of the identity of their captor since the fugitive had briefly visited him earlier, and since then had been unable to dispense of his worry.

As if nothing had been spoken, Obi-Wan remained in the middle of the room, unmoving, his gaze downward.

Qui-Gon had been worried before, and this withdrawn behavior of his padawan only increased it.

Qui-Gon licked his dry lips. "Padawan?" he infused his voice with tenderness and concern. "Padawan, did anyone hurt you?" He shifted closer, ignoring the clanking of metal chains, until he sat beside the boy. "Did Tarren . . . ."

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and swallowed nervously. He didn't need anymore of the question. He knew exactly what Qui-Gon was asking.

"Padawan?" Qui-Gon raised his bound hands, cupping the boy's chin and drawing the pallid face up.

Obi-Wan blinked and raised desolate eyes, moist with tears unshed. "No." His voice was so faint Qui-Gon could barely hear it.

Qui-Gon was visibly relieved, but the padawan's lost look sent an ache to his chest. There was more, he guessed, something akin to what he'd suspected? "Is he planning to . . . ."

"He," Obi-Wan paused, waiting until a shudder passed, "uh, he was going to, but," Obi-Wan felt a flush of embarrassment at the admission and looked away, "whoever he's working for doesn't want me harmed."

Qui-Gon frowned at that and dropped his hands in his lap. "Working for?"

"Yes, I heard them talking," the padawan replied, brows knitting at the acrid smell of chemicals. He cast curious eyes about the small cell until he saw dried teal rings of spilt cleansing agents in a dusty corner.

"But you don't know who it is?" the master concluded, ignoring the distraction.

Obi-Wan shook his head, wiped the end of a tunic sleeve across his eyes and inclined his head toward the floor again. Unsteady hands sought the familiar comforting braid, then dropped quickly, giving up the empty search, and his posture slouched all the more.

With eyes suddenly widening, Qui-Gon clasped Obi-Wan's face in both hands and turned the padawan's head to the side. "Padawan . . ." the master's voice faltered. He brought Obi-Wan's face back toward him, with the boy's jaw still nestled between his large palms.

A single tear, glistening palest amber, escaped the fluttering eyelids and traced a slow path down the smooth cheek. Obi-Wan tightly closed his eyes, as if that would prevent his master from seeing it.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon's deep voice begged for explanation, sounding loud and overwhelming as it fell into the padawan's ears. "Obi-Wan?" He brushed the tear away with a callused thumb.

"He," Obi-Wan said softly, as Qui-Gon's hands left his face, "he cut it off, Master, and then he," although hesitating, the padawan was unable to keep the misery from thickening his voice, "he burned it. He said I wouldn't need it anymore. And he also took the bracelet you gave me," Obi-Wan added, almost off-handedly.

Qui-Gon noticed the failed attempt to sound casual, knowing the extent to which the pain had reached. He turned his eyes upon the young man who had grown up by his side. The boy was so precious to him, so dear, and he knew the boy was hurt by the stolen gift more than he would have admitted.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence during which neither spoke, and the small cell seemed to grow darker and smaller.

Obi-Wan glanced at Qui-Gon and quickly looked away.

"Look at me, Padawan," Qui-Gon commanded, traces of urgency evident. He knew Obi-Wan enough to know that the boy wanted to tell him something important, something that he found difficult to speak of.

After a quick furtive glance through thick lashes, the boy raised his head and locked eyes roiling with bitterness, with the deep midnight orbs of his mentor. Obi-Wan was suddenly alarmed by the deep concern there.

"Please don't be afraid to tell me anything," Qui-Gon pleaded hoarsely.

Noticing he had been playing with the edge of his tunic, Obi-Wan stopped in abrupt frustration and gulped. "He's tainted me," he said simply, letting the weight of the meaning hang heavy between them.

Qui-Gon blinked in perplexity. "Tainted?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to elaborate and nearly faltered to find the courage to speak as his dry throat constricted. A deep inhale and exhale calmed him somewhat, and he went on, "there's some sort of dark imprint - as he called it - upon my mind. Some kind of dark signature. Something I don't understand. But I have felt it and sensed it. I _know_ it is there," his voice dropped to just above a whisper, "and it scares me more than anything ever has."

There was a strange lambent glow of wonderment and tenderness in Qui-Gon's eyes. "A dark imprint?"

Obi-Wan gave a slow half-nod.

"I have never heard of . . ." the master's voice trailed off as he tried to process the full import of the problem.

"His employer placed it on _him_," Obi-Wan explained, mentally forming a detachment from himself, "and instructed him on how to transfer it to _me_ - which he did when he . . ." his voice trailed off.

The Jedi master nodded, understanding what was left unspoken. "When did you first sense it?" Qui-Gon's eyebrows bunched together, his interest peaked.

"I'm not sure. I think it was sometime after we returned from Lorminth. But even then it was very subtle, very seductive - like the edge of a shadow that promises warmth. Remember I told you how I'd felt like I was in a shadow?"

He waited until Qui-Gon nodded.

"I welcomed the feeling at first. It offered an escape from the emptiness and unworthiness, from my worst nightmares. It cradled and comforted me when there was no one there, when I felt that I was alone - despite all the help offered by the healers and by you." He shifted uncomfortably, aware of the intensity of his mentor's eyes hanging on his every word, and diverted his own eyes away toward the corner of the room. "Once I realized it was in truth cold and uncaring, it had grown stronger. I have felt it stirring and intensifying since before we left Coruscant."

Obi-Wan realized that he was going on, as if it had nothing to do with him, as if _he_ were not the subject of speculation here, and it bothered him. He knew the Darkness was real, and it had never felt more so than now. Growing increasingly aware of the complete silence of his master, Obi-Wan threw his gaze upon the man in question, wanting to see something of hope and acceptance there.

Qui-Gon was nodded his head in bemusement. "It _made_ you feel like you were alone. But Padawan, you're not tainted."

Aquamarine eyes glittered crystalline dark, and Obi-Wan felt a rush of frustration. "Then what am I?"

Qui-Gon took a deep breath, started to cross his arms across his chest, but gave up when he remembered the chains would not allow such movement. "Obi-Wan, whatever this is, it is _not_ a part of you. It is a foreign presence, not yours."

"But it's my fault that it has grown," Obi-Wan argued.

"No, it is _not_ your fault," Qui-Gon stated simply and evenly.

"But I encouraged it," countered the padawan, dismally sad eyes begging for rebuttal.

"Padawan," the master said in a stern tone.

"No, Master," Obi-Wan protested. "I did."

"Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon waited until the boy closed his mouth and looked at him. "Yes, you should have come to me about this, but it is _not_ your fault."

"I couldn't come to you," the boy huffed. "I was angry with you, with everyone. And that _is_ my fault."

"I know," Qui-Gon softly conceded, amending it with a kind smile to take away some of the sting. "But that still would not guarantee that we wouldn't be here."

Obi-Wan looked away, burying his face in the hollows of his hands. The heavy manacles slid from his wrists down to his forearms, and he gave an exasperated sigh. "I hate him, Master," came the slightly muffled and softly resigned voice.

"Hate leads to suffering. And that's exacting what you're doing," Qui-Gon rebuked, plainly annoyed.

Obi-Wan's face came up sharply, his chest rising and falling with a panting breath. "Just as I didn't want to feel that way about you, I don't want to feel that way about _him_," he gestured toward the door. "But I can't help what I feel in my heart. You were wrong about Tarren being alive and didn't take my concerns seriously. I could be upset about that, but I don't want to be. I want to forgive you of everything. I have in my mind, but not in my heart."

Qui-Gon simply looked at him, letting his own mounting anger drift away, as carelessly as pollen motes upon the wind. He knew the regret was sincere, and despite being unable to feel Obi-Wan's emotions through their bond, Qui-Gon could see the swirling of emotions in the boy's troubled eyes and well knew the undercurrents of self-recrimination that the boy put himself through.

"I am sorry I did not believe you, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon admitted.

A distant sound of doors opening and closing filtered through the walls, followed by muffled voices and footsteps.

"Do you feel it now? The Darkness, I mean?" Qui-Gon decided to divert the direction that the conversation had taken.

"No," the boy whispered as if to himself, his eyes far away. "I _know_ it's there, but I can't feel it now."

"Perhaps the collar is blocking that," Qui-Gon speculated.

Obi-Wan shrugged helplessly. "Perhaps," he mumbled. "But it comes and fades and overall has become stronger with time."

Qui-Gon hesitated, scratching his beard. "Hmm. Did they say what they're planning?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "All I know is that whoever wanted this imprint on me is coming for me."

Obi-Wan barely noticed a tiny grin fall across Qui-Gon's face, painted in shadow. "What's so funny?" He couldn't keep the annoyance from his voice.

Qui-Gon turned eyes sparkling with glee to him, but it only irritated him further. How could his master be happy at a time like this?

"What's wrong with you, Master?" Obi-Wan's face scrunched up with disgust.

Qui-Gon chuckled and almost strangled trying to keep from laughing.

Obi-Wan continued to eye him indignantly. "You're hardly behaving as a Jedi master. A Jedi must have the most serious mind, you always tell me."

"Yes, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon fought to school his face into one of seriousness, without success.

"Really, Master. Granted, humor is not a bad thing," exclaimed the miffed padawan, "but I hardly find this situation humorous. Can't you at least control yourself, or do you expect you can laugh our captors to death?"

With that, a quick bark of laughter escaped the Jedi master before he could catch himself. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I just thought of the time we were on Dathalon and you . . . ."

Obi-Wan's eyes narrowed, and his embarrassed flush was lost in the soft amber light. "I was fifteen, Master."

"Oh, and you're an old man now, hmm?" A smile still quirked the older man's face. "That was only three years ago, Padawan," he gently reminded his student.

"Well, you don't have to remind me. I'll never forget it."

"Nor will I," Qui-Gon said, fighting another outbreak of laughter.

"Why would you think of that now?" the padawan questioned, forehead creasing in contemplation.

Midnight eyes swept over the small room, before settling once again on the boy in front of him. "Oh, I guess it's just the accommodations, the jewelry," he held up his hands to indicate his manacles, "and the romantic amber glow." He suppressed a chuckle when Obi-Wan ducked his head.

The situation was similar enough, Qui-Gon thought. He and Obi-Wan had been locked up together in a cramped cell, chained hands and feet, and were expecting to be killed when the beautiful daughter of the Padisha had come in, decked in her finest flowing silks, carrying an amber-tinted candle lantern, and promised to free them if only Obi-Wan would consent to become her consort. Qui-Gon had not known that his padawan had conversed with the girl the day before, telling her fanciful tales of their brave exploits across the galaxy, and undoubtedly stretching the truth. It was not a wise thing to do, considering the way boys and girls were kept separated in that society until after marriageable age. Suffice to say that only by Qui-Gon's remarkable diplomatic skills were they able to clear up any confusion and be released from their prison.

A ventilation unit popped on somewhere on the other side of one wall and began an incessant humming. More voices crept through the door from somewhere down the hall, and footsteps grew louder . . . approaching.

Obi-Wan glanced toward the closed door. "Master?" His voice was now dripping with despondency, and Qui-Gon's face lost all trace of joy. "What about this imprint? What is going . . . to happen?" He bit his lip, realizing he was sounding like a first year padawan who had never faced any hardship.

Eyes filled with genuine concern and steady resolve turned on Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon's voice took on a most serious tone. "I don't know, my Padawan. But I will be with you through it all." His lips tightened into a thin smile, and with chained hands he squeezed the young man's shoulder.

The small gesture seemed to make Obi-Wan relax a bit. Then the boy turned apprehensive eyes to the opening door.

* * *


	11. Descent Into Torment

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 11-DESCENT INTO TORMENT

The room had become somber, dingy dark walls enclosing, light fading to deepest shade on a collied night where all hope laid extinguished and conquered.

Or so it seemed.

He tried to focus on a solution, but his mind was flooded with images of his padawan being taken from him . . . .

Bright aquamarine eyes staring back at him as they dragged the boy from the cell. Filled with a melange of courage and rebellion and a slight daze of fear, never stolid in their oceanic depths, those same eyes looked to him with heart-breaking trust. Trust that his master would help him, would do something - anything - to keep him from being harmed.

But it was too much. There were too many of them, and he could only do so much. Pushed to the floor and beaten with metal shock rods, Qui-Gon had been unable to stop them. He had looked at his charge just as they had pulled him away, in a respite from the beating, to see the lithe padawan being taken away - wrenched away - and the door had closed in upon him.

Obi-Wan was gone.

At first, he had been angry, crying with desperation, but that had only lasted for a moment before grim determination doused any stray emotions that could pull him under billowing waves of despair. It would only be to Obi-Wan's detriment were it any different, and that would never happen - no, not now, not when he so needed to be above that.

And Jedi masters did not give in to despair.

* * *

The guards had left him alone here with no explanation.

The shackles fell to the floor with a heavy clank. Obi-Wan's eyes widened and peered with open awe down at his freed ankles and wrists. Then the Force-inhibiting collar that dug tightly into his flesh clicked open and slid loosely to rest on his delicate collarbone. The returning power that gushed through him was almost overwhelming when his awareness brightly flashed anew with the Force.

"Oh," he softly sighed in relief, staggering slightly from the suddenness. Languidly, he raised his hands to his neck and rubbed the abused flesh. He felt so much better now, released from that draining restraint, but remained at a loss as to why his captors had done this.

What was he to them, and what did they plan to do with this dark imprint? The notion of the imprint frightened him even more than any other uncertainty of his imprisonment.

His eyes, blinking rapidly with confusion, swept over the room. It was dim, and there were no furnishings, only dark walls and simple ebony tiled floor. Absently, the padawan tugged the collar from his neck and dropped it to the floor next to the chains.

There was something here, something unclean, he could almost immediately sense. An aura so vile and warped, so disturbingly ancient in its origins, that is had no name. It simply _was_, and it curled and coiled densely around his mental awareness, almost suffocating his luminous life-force in a stagnant pool of pure wickedness.

His thoughts grew unfocused as the presence embraced him, penetrating and pouring through him like the silk of blackened water, and he felt himself slipping. With vision spinning, he crashed to his knees, dimly aware of someone now standing next to him.

It was black here. And so very cold.

"There, there, boy," rasped a voice. A clammy hand descended on the coppery-gold hair, threading through strikingly silken strands, petting the trembling padawan.

Obi-Wan shivered from the unwelcome touch and wanted to pull away, but the mental intrusion somehow left him incapacitated enough so that he could not. He merely remained kneeling helplessly and panting heavily from the piercing mental assault.

"Welcome, young Kenobi. I have looked forward to this day with great interest." The man's eyes flashed with hatred, and he quickly accessed that imprinted pattern buried beneath the boy's shields, and pushed.

Obi-Wan cried out at the sudden slamming thrust of the vile Darkness scraping across the landscape of his mind. It was searching, scouring ruthlessly with no care for gentleness or formality, and there was no hindering its blitzing progress. Bent over with hands bracing him against the floor, he felt the Darkness permeate his every pore, and knew that he was thoroughly soaked in its foul decay.

Vaguely, he heard a menacing laugh that sent icy chills through him.

Deep and deeper, the vileness sifted through memories long buried, pulling out and dusting off those that had been pushed into the scourged vaults of pain and forgotten fear. Released, they pranced to the forefront in a mad parade of hideous derision.

The boy with the blinding white hair.

The last hope for a master, turning and walking away, never intending to take him as padawan learner.

Anger at the boy's betrayal and the impersonal order to leave immediately for Bandomeer.

Then there were cruel hands holding him down and . . . .

_No!_

Darth Sidious intensely studied the youthfully attractive face contorted by sheer agony, and he smiled.

* * *

Peace was not easily achieved. For he had none this time.

A shift in focus and he stood abruptly, crossing to the metal door, his thoughts illuminated by a thin shred of hope. He leaned against the door, pressing his ear to the cold surface, only to be met with silence. A vacant useless silence.

Something must be done. Even without the Force, he knew that.

Qui-Gon started banging on the door.

* * *

The boy would either be turned or killed, Sidious mused. There was no other option.

For there was a place that Sidious could not see, where he could never look, that the boy occupied. A bright, gleaming, glowing, blinding place that touched upon his visions and haunted his dreams, but never revealed what was there. He had foreseen a great many things, but only those shaded in the darkest of murk, the blackest place, the place of purest evil. This boy - this one single Jedi padawan - could, somehow, play some significant role in the future of the galaxy, but Sidious could not ascertain just what role that could be, and it frightened him. Perhaps, he surmised, that the boy could be turned, and then all of that revoltingly blessed light would be extinguished and eternally christened by darkness.

But if not . . . .

The imprint had allowed easy access to the boy's mind that might have taken longer and been more difficult to breach had it not been placed and allowed to be tested over time without Obi-Wan's knowledge. Sidious had touched upon the boy's consciousness for many days, testing the effectiveness of the imprint, but never to this intensity. Now, it was invigorating.

By now, Obi-Wan was sobbing bitterly, caught up in reliving a horrifying night in a gloomy speeder garage, but now things had gone differently. A smile slowly crept across Sidious' face. Now, the boy had not repelled his assailant. It was an easy trick, and one the Dark Lord maliciously reveled in.

He spared a disinterested look at Nim Tarren, who stood nearby at the Dark Lord's request. The man would be used for as long as was necessary, and that time was nearing its completion.

Casually, Sidious stepped up behind the padawan. With one hand, he grasped Obi-Wan's short ponytail and yanked it painfully back to bring the boy's tear-streaked face into view, and a soft moan escaped the boy's slightly parted lips. The eyes once radiant as the warm glow of an incandescent sunset now watered with anguish and stared out from a muddled haze of despair and pain.

Obi-Wan's vision was blurred by the welling of tears, and he couldn't make out his captor's face. It hid in the shadows of a black hood, like horrid monsters of a nightmare never wanting to be seen. All that was visible was a pallid chin and a cold smile that sent a shiver racing up his spine.

Sidious traced his free hand down Obi-Wan's pale fair face, wiping stray tears from the boyishly curved cheeks. The touch was strangely gentle, but lingered far too long for the padawan's comfort, although Obi-Wan watched him dully as he did so.

Releasing the ponytail, knowing the boy would stay upright now without help, Sidious stood aside to reveal a familiar metallic cylinder gleaming silver against the ebony floor about a meter in front of him.

Obi-Wan blinked. Was it real? Was it really there? Squeezing his eyes closed, he wanted all of the pain and fear and confusion to just go away, but inside his heart twisted and cried for a sliver of mercy - if ever there be any left in this galaxy. But maybe there would never be any. Maybe he was doomed to suffer for eternity for all of his mistakes, for everyone else's mistakes, for all the galaxy's mistakes. But that was not fair, was it?

Overcome by a churning storm of perplexity of thought and angry hot passion, he let himself drift with it until a persuasive voice jerked him from his careless wandering.

"Yesss. I can feel your anger stirring," Sidious said quietly.

Obi-Wan's eyes shot open. A distressed crease fell across Obi-Wan's fevered brow, and he caught his lower lip between white teeth.

"Look," Sidious pointed an accusing finger to Tarren. "There is your perpetrator."

Tarren's eyes went wide. "No, my Lord," he pleaded. Grabbing at his throat, he gurgled as he slid to his knees, then gasped loudly, inhaling gulps of air. His blanched face rose, revealing a look of horror to Obi-Wan, while the Dark Lord's cackling laughter echoed through the chamber.

Obi-Wan's troubled gaze fell on Tarren, whom he had not noticed before, and a raging torrent of emotion - dark and forbidding - roiled through him.

"Yesss," the chilling voice drawled. "You want your lightsabre. Take it," Sidious prodded.

Obi-Wan swallowed the bile gushing in the back of his parched throat, and finally his eyes dropped back to the lightsabre waiting on the floor.

"He is defenseless," Sidious said, softly, almost nonchalantly. "Now . . . take your weapon and strike him down."

* * *


	12. Dark of the Night

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 12-DARK OF THE NIGHT

His incessant pounding on the door had drawn guards to quiet him down. Through the door he heard muttered swears and grumbling.

Qui-Gon stepped back to the side of the door against the wall and waited, manacled hands clinching and breaths heavy. His focus was clear and intent on one single purpose, on one directive. When the key code had beeped entry and the door began its slide to open, he was ready to pounce.

As the first guard stepped through, the shock rod in his hand was quickly snatched away, and before the man could react, the thick metal rod slammed into the side of his head. There was a sharp crack, and his body slumped to the dust-covered floor, lifeless.

The second guard was in by then and prepared to attack the defiant prisoner. He swung his shock rod at Qui-Gon, but it was effectively blocked by the stolen rod. Stepping back, the guard warily eyed the prisoner, keeping his weapon at the ready.

Bathed in dim amber pools of light, both men assessed his opponent, making mental notes of the proximity of the limp body on the floor, so as to not trip and fall.

The guard was a young man and could not have been older than Obi-Wan. He peered into the midnight blue of the prisoner's eyes. The Qui-Gon's gaze was sharp and alert. Licking his lips, the guard rocked from one foot to the other.

Qui-Gon's body still ached and felt clumsy from the effect of the shock rods that had beaten him earlier, but he held the weapon firmly in hand, waiting for the guard's impatience to push him into making the first move.

A sense of peace came over him when he realized that no other guards were coming. Take out this one man, and then he could go in search of Obi-Wan. A small smile quirked the side of his lips at this discovery, and the guard visibly paled.

Swallowing his nervousness, the guard's eyes dropped to the prisoner's chained ankles, then back up, now with a twinkling in them.

Following the guard's gaze, Qui-Gon was slightly startled that he had forgotten the chains. His mobility was greatly hindered - especially if he had to change his position quickly. To his frustration, the guard started circling to one side. Qui-Gon shuffled his feet, circling as well as he could the opposite way.

"Surrender, fool," the young guard spat, with a toothy grin. "You can not win." He spun his rod pretentiously.

Qui-Gon shrugged his shoulders in a doubtful gesture and strengthened his grasp on his weapon.

The young man lunged to the side, swinging the shock rod in an arc.

Too hindered by the chains between his ankles, Qui-Gon took the hit on the backs of his knees, and was easily swept from his feet. He fell on his back, the ache from the shock buzzing through his knees and his lungs emptied of air, but he brought his own weapon up just in time to block the dangerous descent of the guard's rod. With a twist of his wrists, he deflected the rod, throwing the young man temporarily off balance by the forceful parry. As the guard stumbled back, Qui-Gon took the opportunity to roll to the guard's right and sharply swing his weapon. It sliced through the air, solidly colliding with an unprotected elbow.

Dropping his weapon, the young guard unconsciously cradled his right arm. A pained grimace twisted his face.

Qui-Gon sat up, immediately noticing the streak of fear that spread across the guard's face as their eyes met. For a brief second, he thought he saw Obi-Wan there instead of the young guard, although he had deep brown hair and brandy colored eyes. The young man looked so young and vulnerable, much as his padawan had before he had been taken from him, and it was almost too painful for Qui-Gon to look at him. Cautiously rising to his knees, the Jedi master held his weapon at the ready; the only sound was the heavy breathing of both men from their exertion.

The guard backed up to the wall, still holding his broken elbow. Large brandy eyes watched the Jedi with wariness, and he sank against the cold wall behind him, as if trying to press through it. He was apparently unarmed without the shock rod, and the door was on the other side of the Jedi master.

"Hand me the keys to these manacles and collar," Qui-Gon ordered in his master voice, his breathing evening out calmly while he straightened his upper body.

The young man seemed to wilt further, then fumbled in a pocket with one hand, while the other arm hung limply at his side. He finally pulled a ringed set of key-cards from the pocket and tossed them to the floor before Qui-Gon.

Quickly, the Jedi master relieved himself of the chains and collar, and relished the bright influx of familiar power from reconnection to the Force, but as he stood a tidal flood of despair washed over him through the training bond he shared with Obi-Wan, followed by a despondent plea for help.

Swaying slightly, he straightened his tunic and stepped closer to the guard, towering over the young man while he kept his shock rod readied. His nostrils flared and eyes narrowed threateningly, and the young guard suddenly seemed very small and insignificant, perhaps too insignificant. The incessant flow of despair and suffering that came from his apprentice was unnerving. Why not just kill this boy and go find Obi-Wan?

The young man met the piercing gaze and slid down the wall to sit on the floor, holding his wounded arm. Fearful eyes silently pleaded with the Jedi master.

Qui-Gon took in a lung-full of air, releasing it slowly, pushing the rousing rage away and into the Force. "I won't hurt you," he informed the guard, his eyes softening blue. It was a difficult thing to do, to not take out his revenge on this pliant creature, but, nevertheless, he was a Jedi, and he would live by that.

"Do you have a comlink?"

A small headshake and a dropped gaze was his only answer.

Qui-Gon knew he was lying. "_Give_ me the comlink," he emphasized with a subtle Force manipulation.

The guard looked confused for a moment, and then pulled the small object from his belt.

Taking the proffered comlink, Qui-Gon left the cell and locked it behind him.

_/Hold on, Obi-Wan. I'm coming./ _he sent, along with a mental caress, hoping the boy would latch onto that thought.

* * *

Furious misery had claimed him. As darkly shadows wrapped and clung about him, he felt his world fall in upon him. Broken skies collapsed, and he was boxed in, compressed into a space so tiny, so devoid of life that he could scarcely breathe. In the space of a heartbeat, he knew no light. It had fled, crying.

He gazed into the horrified eyes of the man he was being goaded into killing, and was haunted by the sheer blackness in the rhythmic chiming of his heart. All it would take would be a simple sweep of his sabre, and he found that thought entirely intoxicating, wanting it more than he wanted his very breath.

An intrusion whispered faintly in his mind, so soft and alluring, so full of promise and love; his master, Qui-Gon, was on his way.

Wavering slightly on his feet, he realized that he had already called his weapon to him and now stood mere feet away from _that_ man. The azure blade was yet to be ignited, but he had never been more eager to kill.

Sensing the inner battle, as well as the contact of the Jedi master with his student, Sidious wound a constricting Force web around the boy, preventing him from hearing his master again. Now even a scream through their training bond would be to no avail.

Obi-Wan gasped audibly, no doubt from the short and abruptly ended contact with his master. But he could not ignore that touch, as much as he would have liked to. Like a spray of pellucid waters had it washed over him, giving him a small taste of the purity of light he had pushed aside for hatred. But he was furious. That was not what he wanted now. How could Qui-Gon do this to him? He wanted to scream, to lash out and stop it, but it was too late.

This was his choice. It was not preordained fate that had opened his eyes, that offered a choice between two doors. To murder or not to murder. It was like a cruel game flipping back and forth. It would be so easy, and yet . . . it would be so hard.

_Feel your anger, then examine and release it to the Force_, a serene voice echoed in his head from years past. Another one of those platitudes that was harder to do than say.

_I will try, Master, _he silently replied to the memory.

_Do or do not. There is no try_, came the gentle retort.

_So is all my effort for naught?_

_It is all a matter of faith, Padawan._

Blind resistance.

He sighed, knowing he had lost before he had ever begun. _Yes, Master. Then I will DO._

With a new resolve, he turned his eyes upon the man pitifully kneeling before him. Gone was the intimidating stare and lustful glimmer in Tarren's eyes. Gone was the arrogant posture. And gone was the desire to kill this man, this pathetic creature, who had showered so much pain and anguish into his life.

Qui-Gon would be proud.

Slowly, his exhaustion weighing him, Obi-Wan turned to face Sidious, and the Dark Lord saw the grim determination of the set jaw and the combative gleam of defiance in red-rimmed eyes.

"I will not kill in hate." Obi-Wan's voice was quiet, but steady, and he held himself rigidly.

Sidious stared at him, noted the slight trembling of the boy's body. Taking a step closer, he stopped when Obi-Wan lifted his lightsabre in a defensive position, preparing to switch it on. "Foolish boy. Do you truly believe your weapon can stop my mind from breaching yours? I already have and can rip it apart if I so desire."

There was a shadowy falter in teary eyes.

"I can sense your fear," Sidious went on, thrilled with the new revelation.

Obi-Wan's eyes widened. "I am not-"

"You are," the Dark Lord bluntly interrupted. "And you will learn that your pitiful master can not help you. He will soon be killed, and you will have no option but to serve me." He crossed to stand before Obi-Wan, who had lowered his lightsabre to his side, yet stood with squared shoulders.

The boy's eyes closed in concentration, a small furrow between his brows, and there was a shining splendor of peace filling that beautiful Force-presence. The Force seemed to kiss the air that covered him.

Sidious turned away in contemplation. Giving up on turning this boy was harder than he had believed it would be. The boy possessed so much potential, so much that a deep yearning formed within him to make this boy his own. No, he wanted to make every effort he could before killing him, but this was going to take longer than he had originally imagined. That would mean he would have to leave Rymie soon and take the boy somewhere else. He hadn't the time for this now, since Jinn had escaped and there would be trouble soon if they stayed. Besides that, he was due back at Coruscant in a matter of days.

"Tarren," the Dark Lord hissed, breaking the reverent silence that had fallen upon the room.

Still on his knees, Tarren had remained quiet, witnessing the spiritual battle with held breath. "Yes, My Lord?" he whispered, unable to cover the fear in his tone.

"Take the boy to Paemia," Sidious commanded. "I will send someone to pick him up from you there."

"No," Obi-Wan protested, his hand gripping the lightsabre more tightly.

Black robes swirled as Sidious spun around to meet that glaring gaze of aquamarine. "You have no choice," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, and reached within the boy's mind again.

This time furious black waves lashed over Obi-Wan. It felt like he was drowning in an abysmal sea, so dark, unable to breathe, unable to hear. He tried strengthening his shields, then recalled that the imprint lay beneath them. Crying out softly, he crumbled to the floor, his 'sabre clanking on the tile beside him.

Sensing the boy's wild cry though the Force caught and silenced within the constraining web he had placed around the him, Sidious smoothly continued in satisfaction, "you will be paid for your silence and for your obedience."

Nodding in unveiled relief, Tarren stood, a bit unsteadily, and retrieved the discarded manacles and inhibiting collar.

Sidious crouched beside Obi-Wan, his black robe pooling on the floor around him, and trailed a fingertip down the boy's jaw. "You are mine now, my apprentice," he said, smiling ferally as Obi-Wan twisted his face away. Then he stood and watched Tarren slip the manacles on the dazed padawan.

Confusedly, Obi-Wan fought the cool hands that clasped his wrists, but the swirling disorientation kept him disadvantaged. He gave an inarticulate protest as metal bindings snapped into place, but provided no more resistance once his wrists were secured, watching through half-lidded eyes as he was once again bound and cut off from the Force.

* * *

Qui-Gon remembered the frilly chartreuse fronds of the glomhuel trees softly rippling on summer breezes. On Cagonor, the locals considered them guardians of the coast. Tall and exotically curved, they shrouded the evidence of civilization, keeping the natives safe from the warring tribes of the Tirumf islands nearby. Beautiful to look at, yet true to their legend, the trees had kept the locals safe for close to five hundred years.

Throughout Obi-Wan's feverish sickness there three years ago, Qui-Gon had never lost sight of the lush vegetation. It had surrounded them, cloaked them, kept them safe from danger, and given the Jedi master easy access to the purity and energy of the Living Force.

Oh, how he wished that he could escape to a place like that and never feel so forgotten by the breath of life that bound all things together. How he wished he was there now, Obi-Wan by his side, safe from everything, safe from the galaxy and all its evils.

But destiny did not work that way.

He had a purpose, a path, that he had to walk, and it had never felt so hard to keep treading that path as it did now. Living in the moment was never easy when evil and pain consumed it.

_/Obi-Wan. Please hold on./ _he sent again impulsively, knowing but quickly disregarding that the training bond was being blocked, and that it would never reach the boy. He was fooling no one but himself.

Hastening across tiled floor, he hurried in the direction he had last sensed Obi-Wan before the contact had been abruptly severed, hoping he would be able to save him from whatever was planned for him. He had felt the rise of anger and then shortly thereafter contact had broken off.

Using the comlink, Qui-Gon had already contacted the Premier, who had informed the Jedi master that troops were on their way. Although Rymie had yet to be admitted to the Republic, they considered the kidnapping of Jedi to be a serious problem and wanted the Republic to know they valued the hallowed guardians of peace. Now, Qui-Gon hurried through darkened corridors, wondering what sort of place this was.

It was a large compound, and guards paced the corridors, as if searching for someone. Qui-Gon guessed that they had discovered his escape. Periodically, he hid in shadows or in deserted rooms, where he saw them furnished for residence or stocked with various supplies. In a weapons case, just down the hall where he had escaped from his cell, he had fortunately found his lightsabre on display. Now, he scurried through hallways, feeling his weapon's comfortable weight in his hand as he made a beeline for Obi-Wan's last known location.

He rounded a corner and silently slipped into a darkened room. It was empty, but Obi-Wan had been here. The boy's Force signature remained like the lingering smell of salt near a seashore. This was the last place Obi-Wan could be sensed by Qui-Gon.

Something else - dark - had been here, as well.

His heart laden with a growing unease, Qui-Gon spun on his heels and stalked out. He drew on the Force for much needed tranquility, but quickened his pace down the dark halls, searching for life forms. Sensing a concentration, the Jedi master quickly headed in that direction. As he hurried along, he pulled out the comlink and quietly called the Premier again.

There was a small crackle, followed by Premier Sherveld's muffled voice. "Master Jinn? Master Jinn?"

"Yes, Premier," Qui-Gon's baritone voice, soothing as the trill of a Ki'aleya moongarbler sharply contrasted the excited fluster of Sherveld's tone. "How long until your soldiers get here?"

"They should be there any moment," the Premier's voice informed him.

Qui-Gon nodded, sighing in weighted relief, and continued on toward where he hoped his padawan was. "Thank you, Premier."

* * *

His fingers idly stroked the ice-encrusted column of an obsidian balustrade that he had been pushed against, resting his arms on it, by the squad of guards assigned to take him outside. It felt cold to the touch, as expected, and he wondered if it always was so cold and lifeless. Certainly, he could identify with it now - cut off from the Force as he was, with the freezing ache of loneliness and dread of the future that had crept into his heart.

His fingers slipped, the ice gently melting under his slightly warming touch, and he lifted his head to see where all the guards had gone. The disorientation that the dark man's mental invasion had caused had fizzled now to a dull headache, but that did nothing for his emotional state.

One guard - a tall man with narrow shoulders - stood at the edge of the veranda, one foot on the next step down, a sable-gloved hand resting on his holstered blaster. This man was the one in charge, Obi-Wan was sure. He had simply handed out orders and talked to another man over a comlink. Several other guards hovered around him, carrying out orders or standing by.

Turning his head to the side, Obi-Wan glimpsed a burly guard behind him. The man caught the padawan's surreptitious glance and, placing his hand on Obi-Wan's back, pressed him firmly against the balustrade, his eyes ensuring the prisoner's wrists were still chained together. He said nothing as the boy turned his attention back to the scene before him.

There was a small snow-covered clearing, spread from the bottom of the veranda to a thick line of barren trees, their curved limbs forming an exotic image of black prison bars carved against the soft clean whiteness of snow under the deep onyx sky of night.

How long were they going to stay here, Obi-Wan wondered, thinking himself half-crazy for wanting something to happen, rather than remain in this wondering, unknowing, stage. It had been quite awhile that they had stood out here in the frigid temperatures that lingered from the snowstorm hours ago. As wisps of coldness crept through his tunics to the bare skin beneath, he shivered lightly, wishing he still had his thick robe on to stave off the chill.

He was just about to reluctantly ask if they would return his robe, or give him something else to help him keep warm, when a humming roar in the distance drew his attention. His keen eyes spotted the crimson lights of an incoming ship. It was not large, but comfortably sized and compact.

A dark form in the night sky, illuminated only by its identification lights, it dropped lower and decelerated as it approached the clearing. The roar grew louder, hover-suspensors groaning as they engaged, and the ship came to a halt in the air. Abruptly, an array of white lights flicked on, driving shadows from the crisp field.

As Obi-Wan watched it settle on the ground, he suddenly felt his pulse quicken. He assumed that this ship would be taking him to Paemia, as the dark man had ordered. From there, he would be taken somewhere else, and eventually reunited with that man again. His heart sank at that assumption.

When would he be himself again?

Abruptly, rough hands grabbed his upper arms and jerked him around. Obi-Wan struggled instinctively with the strong hands of the guards that had spun him around, until he felt the sting of a savage slap.

"It's time to go," Tarren ordered the guards surrounding them, his breath fogging in the crisp air.

A cruel hand grabbed Obi-Wan's chin and forced him to face Tarren's hateful eyes. Swallowing hard, he met the dark stare, refusing to be cowered, but his misery only deepened and his hope withered. They were taking him away. Away from Qui-Gon and his life as he knew it. And this man was _touching_ him again. No, he didn't think he actually hated Tarren, but it had been a hard thing refusing to murder him earlier. And how it made his stomach turn to feel those dirty hands on his skin, soiling him . . . again.

"It's time you learn your place, boy," Tarren spat, obviously enjoying his power - not to mention the fact that he was still alive. "Any more rebellion and you'll wish you'd never been born."

_Never been born. _Now that was a pleasant thought.

Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut, hopeless dread flowering in his heart.

Oh, when would it ever end?

* * *


	13. Drowning

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 13-DROWNING

The small clearing had become rife with activity. Amidst the excited scamper of men spilling from the huddle of buildings and pressing towards the starship, worker droids carried crates of various sizes across the field and were efficiently storing them in cargo holds.

Still on the veranda, Obi-Wan stood between two guards, watching the rapid evacuation with growing interest. It had not been surprising for there to be a few militant dregs on this independent planet, but for there to be a small-scale private army would be of concern to the Republic that was in consideration of admitting the planet.

"We still can't find the other Jedi," a low voice drifted over to the padawan.

From the corner of his eye, Obi-Wan regarded Tarren, who was the recipient of the information that Qui-Gon had apparently escaped. The padawan allowed himself an inward smile. At least his master was not harmed. Despite the distress clenching his heart, he desperately hoped Qui-Gon would stay hidden until after they left, so that at least _he_ would remain safe.

"That's just as well," Tarren replied. "The boy is the one that is most important-"

"Commander," another man yelled as he rushed up to them. He paused, out of breath, as both of the other men turned to look at him. "There are troop transports and battle tanks coming up the road," he pointed past the line of bare trees.

There was a few silent seconds as they observed the procession of oncoming vehicles. Difficult to spot in the swath of night, they rambled on sans any lights that could alert to their presence. Only the low, steady hum of their engines and the backdrop of pale snow gave them any chance of being spotted.

Tarren's wide-eyed gaze shifted to Obi-Wan, then the commander. "Get everyone to the ship," he quietly ordered, a subtle nuance of fear in his voice.

With a quick nod, the commander jogged off, shouting orders into his comlink. The starship's engines were still rumbling and fired up a notch, making it difficult to hear anything else.

"Come on," Tarren shouted above the grinding noise and sped down the veranda's steps.

Unable to keep up with the guard's hasty pace because of the chains hindering his stride, Obi-Wan was dragged along.

A heavy boom fell across the field, stealing Obi-Wan's hearing for a few seconds. He peered over the mass of men running for the starship and saw orange flames dancing on the edge of the ship. Twisting his head over his shoulder to search for where the attack had arisen from, he saw laser blasts zipping through the air. They were surrounded.

Another booming blast rocked the ground and pounded the starship. It groaned under the strain, twisting clouds of smoke rising high in the air before fading into the bleak atmosphere. The fire had spread on the mangled hull, charring and releasing caustic odors.

By now, Obi-Wan's eyes were burning, with stinging tears pooling in them. Abruptly, he was thrown to the cold hard ground on his belly. He heard the ping of blaster fire, the hiss of incinerating metal, felt the bits of dirt that rained from the sky. Burying his face in his arms, the padawan laid still in the biting snow as the world around him erupted into infernal chaos.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn had been watching from the cover of a low stone wall. After finding an exit from the building he had been in, he had crept along the outside, coming upon a short wall that penned a tiny garden courtyard. Circling around it, he had spotted the prepped ship and then the men scrambling for it.

After a frantic search, he had been immensely relieved to see Obi-Wan alive and standing under his own power on the veranda. Guards surrounded the boy, however, and without backup, Qui-Gon knew he had little chance of rescue.

Now, in the midst of the confusion of battle, Qui-Gon leaped over the short wall and barreled through the mad bedlam of the snow-swept field. Lightsabre in hand and guided by the Force, he easily overcame surprised armed men and worked his way towards where he had seen Obi-Wan pushed to the ground.

Deflecting the blaster fire back to one attacker, Qui-Gon quickly scanned the area again, knowing that he had arrived at the spot where his padawan had been, but the boy was not there.

His momentary distraction cost him, as a pain - sharp as fire - scorched his forearm.

* * *

A hand grabbed the back of his tunic and roughly hauled him up from the ground.

"You're coming with me, boy," Tarren's menacing voice came from behind his ear.

Obi-Wan started to twist from Tarren's grip when an arm snaked around his throat, nearly choking him. Then a dagger appeared from the other side, orange flames wildly playing off the shiny blade only centimeters from his face.

Arching his back, Obi-Wan tried to relieve the unyielding pressure against his throat, but it only tightened more painfully. In futility he pulled on the arm as he was dragged backwards away from the ship and towards the buildings. Helpless to do anything else, he watched the starship engulfed in flames, melting metal crunching and sizzling as it braved another artillery hit. Sparks flew and hot clouds poured from its skeletal frame.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance," the cold voice pulled him from the haunting scene. "Now I'm getting off of this planet and taking you with me."

They reached the edge of the buildings, and Tarren pulled Obi-Wan down a blackened walkway between the brick walls of two tall structures. The view to the battle gradually grew smaller and smaller, and light dimmed to a mere whisper until they were swallowed up by the sinister shadows of the alley.

As he was forced along step-by-dreadful-step, one thought blazed like a flaming sun in his mind: despite the surprise attack and despite Qui-Gon's escaping, he was still being taken away. The possibilities that that future presented were unspoken threats and revolting promises that he had no desire to give life to.

Ever.

Overcome by trembling fear, he tried twisting free of the strong arm that wrapped around him, but Tarren quickly spun the padawan around and slammed him against a hard brick wall. Dark spots danced before his eyes when his head collided with the unforgiving surface.

"We keep finding us in these situations, don't we?" Tarren smiled cruelly, pressing the edge of the dagger firmly against Obi-Wan's throat.

Obi-Wan said nothing, the glow of his eyes dark oceans in the night.

"Such beautiful eyes," Tarren whispered, as his face loomed closer.

Fear shimmered in the padawan's eyes until thickened lashes swept down to hide his distress.

Tarren arched a black eyebrow. "I'm still taking you to Paemia."

"Then why aren't we leaving?" Obi-Wan asked quietly, feeling suddenly uneasy about the pause in the alley.

"We will soon enough. My speeder is waiting. I can see it from here," Tarren glanced to the street beyond the alley, "and there is no one - that I can see - who is guarding it. And even if there is, I have _you_ as a hostage. So I think we can safely slip away from this ridiculous war zone."

His free hand trailed down the front of the padawan's tunic, tugging gently at the soft fabric, finally making a swift, violent rip, and Obi-Wan unconsciously grabbed the offending hand with his manacled hands.

"Stop it," Tarren threatened, yanked his hand away.

"Go to Hell." Obi-Wan's eyes flamed, his chin set.

A look of satisfaction passed over Tarren's face. "Not until after we've finished." Chuckling lightly, he forced the padawan's chin higher with the blade. "Don't move, or I'll slit your throat," he warned.

Obi-Wan ceased his protest and stilled his squirming with great effort. His chest heaving, he fought for control of his swirling emotions and the heavy sickness flaring at the pit of his stomach. Torn between wanting to stop the assault and wanting to keep the blade at his throat from slicing his flesh, he felt as if he was at the speeder garage again, his focus slipping and drowning in fear. He shivered and a whimper tore from his lips.

Unable to watch his own violation, he closed his eyes.

_Oh, please stop_, he silently pleaded, gritting his teeth, determined to not give Tarren the pleasure of hearing him beg as he had the first time.

The first time . . . . There was a whorl of appalling memories - some agreeing, some conflicting - spinning, spinning, in a confusing nightmarish spectacle.

Unexpectantly, Obi-Wan was wrenched from the wall and held in front of his captor again, an arm clamped around his shoulders and the dagger at his throat. Daring to open his eyes, Obi-Wan was greeted by the harsh silhouette of a tall intimidating figure standing meters away at the end of the alley.

A comforting sea of relief washed over him at the vision.

"Release him," the figure said, calmly.

Tarren laughed bitterly. "So, the great Qui-Gon Jinn wants his little-"

"I did not come here for small talk, Tarren," Qui-Gon's voice was low and deadly as he stepped closer.

"Don't," Tarren warned, using his blade to push Obi-Wan's head back to rest on Tarren's shoulder. "Or I'll kill him, slowly and painfully." He smiled when Qui-Gon stiffened and stopped his approach.

Sounds of warfare fell away as an insignificant backdrop.

Staring into the aquamarine depths of Obi-Wan's eyes, Qui-Gon saw the trepidation and unuttered plea there, knew he had to do something. As a cold breeze flipped soft wisps of silvering hair across his face, his throat constricted with anxiety.

"We're leaving, Master Jedi. Goodbye," Tarren nodded once, then proceeded to drag the padawan back towards the speeder. Holding the captive close, he could feel the trembling of the boy's body and hear his uneven breathing.

Qui-Gon followed, letting the distance separating him from his padawan grow no further. Obi-Wan's wrists and ankles were still shackled, making the boy more vulnerable, he noted. Slowly, he pushed the edge of his robe back, freeing the lightsabre on his belt.

A frown creased Tarren's brow, catching Qui-Gon's obvious gesture. "Don't come any closer," he shouted, as he reached the speeder.

Qui-Gon stopped again, glancing from Tarren to Obi-Wan and back again.

Obi-Wan felt the arm around him tighten, and the dagger suddenly disappeared. Uncertainty spiked in his heart, and he blinked questioningly at Qui-Gon.

Opening the speeder's side door with one hand, Tarren tightened his grip on his captive. With his attention divided, he was surprised when Obi-Wan dropped, raising his arms and twisted out of his grasp.

A hand grabbed at Obi-Wan and shoved him to the ground on his back. Momentarily stunned, he stared as there was a blur of motion, and then he saw a glowing emerald shaft protruding from Tarren's chest. And the man's eyes were wide with shock, and the lips open in silent wail.

Qui-Gon withdrew the blade slowly, pushed the body away from Obi-Wan and onto the ground beside him. After checking vital signs, he put his weapon away and turned back to his apprentice.

"You're hurt," Obi-Wan whispered in one breath, seeing the torn and burnt fabric on Qui-Gon's arm. His eyes were large with concern.

Glancing at his wound, Qui-Gon replied indifferently, "it's nothing, Obi-Wan."

"But you're hurt, Master," the padawan repeated, struggling to push himself to a sitting position.

"I think . . ." the master paused when he saw Obi-Wan staring at Tarren's motionless body.

With his gaze riveted to the body, the boy softly queried, "is he . . . dead?'

Qui-Gon nodded. "Yes. And I think you should lie back down, Obi-Wan," he added, a little insistently.

Eyes clouded with confusion rose to Qui-Gon. "What?"

"Lie down," Qui-Gon repeated again, gently pushing the boy's shoulders back.

Obi-Wan complied, following his master's gaze to his own tunic rapidly staining crimson. "Force, I'm . . ."

"Bleeding," Qui-Gon finished the thought.

Lying on the frozen ground, Obi-Wan stared up at the top of a building that touched the soft velvet black sky as Qui-Gon removed his chains, the Force-inhibiting collar and examined his wound. It was strange that the heavens were still beautiful on a harrowing night.

Only now did the pain make itself known, the padawan grimacing as it steadily sharpened. Fortuitously, he now had access to the Force, but his grasp felt weak and tenuous.

Methodically, Qui-Gon did as much as he could, slowing the bleeding with the Force and covering the jagged gash with strips of cloth torn from his tunic.

"Master . . ." Obi-Wan moaned as he was wracked by a spasm of pain. He grabbed Qui-Gon's sleeve, desperately pulling at it until the master clasped the boy's hand.

"You should be fine, Padawan," Qui-Gon assured Obi-Wan, who was now looking very faint. "But I need to take you to a healing center." He brushed soothing fingertips across the padawan's cheek.

Obi-Wan offered a weak smile. "I never thought I'd be so happy to see someone die," he quietly mumbled. His glazed eyes slid closed, and his body slackened as he fell unconscious.

* * *

Dawn came as a shy glow, just sweetly bright enough to effuse the world in color. Soft rays sprayed through the window to grace his face. Eyes, deep as midnight, trailed the path of a diplomatic cruiser through the air until it settled on a landing pad, then he turned around and crossed to the bed.

Obi-Wan was still unconscious, his breathing steady and deep. He had just emerged from a bacta tank a few hours before and was placed in this small immaculate room in the infirmary for recovery from the knife wound to his abdomen. Still pale from the blood loss, the boy's features were relaxed and at peace, while his close-cropped hair sagged from its dampened condition.

The private army - if that's what it was - had been effectively defeated, the prisoners shipped off to a camp where they would be incarcerated and interrogated. Perhaps it would be discovered who their leader was, since the man had mysteriously disappeared. Qui-Gon had not seen him, but he surmised that Obi-Wan had and could, hopefully, provide information that the prisoners would not.

After a quick inspection of the various tubes connected to Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon unceremoniously began removing them.

"Master Jinn," exclaimed a healer nurse, who had just entered the room. "What in blazes are you doing?"

"Taking my padawan home," Qui-Gon answered distantly, not pausing in his activity.

"But . . ."

"But," Qui-Gon interrupted with serene patience, "he has need of our Temple healers. This bizarre imprint cannot be treated here."

"But you can't just . . ." She blinked uncertainly, her lips swelled to a pout.

"But I am," he turned toward her, a kind smile on his lips. "He will survive, I assure you."

The nurse stood with mouth opening in bewilderment.

Qui-Gon turned toward the doorway when the Premier appeared there.

Brows knitting, Sherveld peered at the Jedi master. "Master Jinn," his tone begged for explanation.

"I wish to thank you and your planet for it's hospitality, Premier," Qui-Gon bowed with polite courtesy. Turning back to the bed, he pulled the crisp white sheet off of Obi-Wan.

"Of course," Sherveld frowned further. "I hope you have found the care of your apprentice to be satisfactory?" His brows rose doubtfully.

"Yes," Qui-Gon slipped out of his robe and wrapped it around Obi-Wan. "However, my padawan is my responsibility, and I must take him back to the Temple where I hope this imprint can be removed."

Sherveld hesitantly stepped closer. "But you haven't finished here. We want to join the Republic, and Senator Palpatine of Naboo recommended you."

Being as careful as he could, Qui-Gon slid his hands under his padawan's limp body and lifted him. "That's very kind of the Senator." He passed the Premier and the nurse, and paused in the doorway, gazing down at the heavy bundle nestled in his arms. "However, I must decline. My padawan is still in danger - danger that only Jedi healers would understand, and I am quite sure the Council will be more than willing to send someone else in my stead."

"But . . . but," the Premier stuttered, watching in disbelief as Qui-Gon disappeared from view.

* * *


	14. Along a Path Unknown

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 14-ALONG A PATH UNKNOWN

_He will survive_.

The words he had spoken to the healer nurse on Rymie echoed back to him, now sounding flimsy in their easy conviction. How had he been so sure?

The dark imprint on Obi-Wan's mind was something he had never encountered - nor ever heard of - before. One hope laid in the vaulted archives of knowledge that the Jedi had stored over millennia. Another, in the mystic guidance of the Force. Whether or not either one would save or fail Obi-Wan was as of yet unknown.

Was he a fool?

Sapphirine eyes shaded in contemplative worry dropped to the lustrous wristlet cradled in his hand. Silvered links, as shiny as the day he had first spotted it in the tiny jeweler's shop beside the Arboretum Dome on Rymie, lay pliant to the shape of his palm.

Obi-Wan had not worn it . . . yet.

He released a shaky sigh, then realized that his hand was trembling.

He looked out the floor-length viewport at the haunting distance of deep space. Like the gentle golden glow of countless candles did stars flicker and burn at their own ancient places in the spacious sanctuary. Even as the universe, in all its breathtaking beauty, slowly died it gave no indication of its final fate.

He half-turned, his gaze taking in the form sheathed protectively in blankets on the bed, soft light from a single glow lamp illumined the room in peaceful dimness. Obi-Wan had not yet awakened, but Qui-Gon sensed the boy's awareness surfacing.

"Mas- ter," Obi-Wan murmured sleepily, gently stirring.

Quickly, Qui-Gon moved to the bedside, pulling a short metal stool with him as he went, and sank onto it.

"Master," the padawan hoarsely uttered, a little more plainly. Eyes still closed, he was giving weak pushes to the blankets, as though trying to free himself from their grasp, while a frown wrinkled the young forehead.

"I'm here, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon consoled the boy, resting a large hand on a young strong shoulder. "You're safe now," he added, then winced knowing that it was in actuality a lie.

The soothing voice of his master wrapping around him, Obi-Wan relaxed, lines fading from his brow, soft rose lips parting in rest, and he grew still once more.

Qui-Gon watched the youthful face until the frown returned and eyes dusky from slumber slitted open and darted confusedly about the room.

"Where . . ." Obi-Wan's gaze settling on Qui-Gon's face, "where are we?" he asked, hearing the cruiser engines' almost inaudible humming.

"On our ship, heading to Coruscant," the Jedi master answered with a thin smile.

Obi-Wan levered himself up, pushed the linen sheets and coverlets down to his waist and languidly stretched. "But," he stopped, a grimace fell across his face, and he pressed his hands to the warm skin where his wound had been, "but what happened? How long was I out?"

Qui-Gon sat back, straightening his spine. "Not long. A few hours. We left shortly after you emerged from the bacta tank."

"The bacta tank?" Obi-Wan repeated for himself, staring out the viewport at the gleaming stars clustered at the ageless core of the galaxy. His thoughts tumbled about as he tried to piece together the last things he could recall.

"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon interrupted the padawan's thoughts. "We could not find your lightsabre. But I did find this." He held out the bracelet, and the brightened face of his padawan made Qui-Gon smile.

"Can I wear it now, Master?" Obi-Wan stretched out a slender arm, and clear eyes rose to the elder man's with a childlike joy in them.

"Of course," Qui-Gon replied happily. He slid the linked band around the boy's wrist and snapped the clasp in place.

"Thank you," whispered Obi-Wan, his eyes traveling over the inscribed wristlet. He looked back at Qui-Gon. "I suppose I can always make a new 'sabre." He sounded disappointed, but hopeful. "But how did the fighting turn out? And what about . . . what about Rymie?"

"The army was defeated. Their leader disappeared. And then we left soon after you emerged from the bacta tank," Qui-Gon summed up.

"But what about Rymie?" the padawan repeated.

Something briefly flickered in crystal blue eyes. Qui-Gon stood and padded to the viewport. "Rymie is a good planet. A prosperous economy and enviable trade, a just judicial system, booming population, possible Force-sensitives. . . ."

"So you've decided to recommend it for admission to the Republic?" Obi-Wan asked, facing his master's back. "But I thought we weren't finished examining everything."

Obi-Wan sounded all the more the young and unseasoned padawan he had been when Qui-Gon had first met him, and the tall Jedi held in a smile.

"Are you still sore?" Qui-Gon hedged, his eyes trapped in the shimmering mist of the Nymphina Nebula.

Obi-Wan nodded suspiciously and answered softly, "yes, Master."

"You must be hungry, as well. Stay here and rest." Qui-Gon's voice - and posture - was very stiff. Turning, he crossed to the door to depart. "I'll bring you something from the galley."

"Master." There was accusation, however so faint, in the padawan's accent.

Qui-Gon stopped, waiting, his face still towards the door.

Obi-Wan tilted his head slightly. "A man I greatly admire once told me never to hide anything from him. Does that advice also apply to him?" It was soft and respectful.

Finally, the aging face turned towards Obi-Wan, and it looked older than it ever had.

Seeing Obi-Wan's speculative frown and eyes searching his for further explanation, Qui-Gon continued with reluctance, barely above a whisper, and there was a thread of apology twined throughout it. "The imprint on your mind, Obi-Wan. Only Jedi healers can . . . help."

Obi-Wan's eyelashes fluttered. "I guessed that much, Master." And he still had that innocence about him.

"Yes, but . . . they're discussing it now, Padawan," Qui-Gon swallowed past the lump in his throat, "and they don't know if they _can_ help."

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to speak, but there was a swelling silence that descended upon the entire room, and words failed him. Suddenly, he felt as cold as the vastness of space.

"I'll bring you some food." Qui-Gon heavily sighed and then strode out.

* * *

The form was draped with a coarse, pasty white cloth. Strips of adhesive tape wound around and around, betraying the shape that hid beneath.

He shivered even as he stepped closer, drawn like a swarm of draigolets to honeyed nectaria blossoms.

_He's dead_, the pilot had told him. _Don't go disturbing the dead._

The pilot had been concerned, but would not prevent him from seeing it if he wanted to. That was why he had asked the flyer, rather than his master. Qui-Gon would have been less than enthusiastic about his examining a cadaver - and certainly more opinionated.

Now at the edge of the table, he raised a hand, fingers splayed and hovering over the figure. This was real, he reminded himself. The man was dead.

A thickness in his throat was swallowed with difficulty, and he was trembling. Trembling with all the fear he had ever known.

No. . . . Not quite. There was one single greater fear.

But. . . .

He suddenly wanted to run away and cry in a darkened corner of the ship, like he had once years ago when Qui-Gon had nearly died. Horrified, the young padawan had wept until worry for his master had sobered him, prodding to return to the master's bedside.

"Obi-Wan?"

Startled, he felt his heart nearly jump to his throat.

A large hand gently pressed between his shoulder blades, then slid up to clasp the nape of his neck as Qui-Gon stepped around into view. Concerned eyes fell upon him, and he felt the full weight of their regard, but he refused to look at them.

"Obi-Wan?" Qui-Gon tried for a response again. The master sadly watched as Obi-Wan turned his back to him, so he let his hand fall idly back to his side. "He's dead, Padawan," he said delicately. "Look if you must."

Obi-Wan stood still, silent and unmoving with his back to his master. Then he slowly shook his head. "No, I trust you," his voice only vaguely unsteady.

"Obi-Wan, what do you remember of . . . the first time you met Tarren? In the speeder garage?" Qui-Gon pushed back the quivering discomfort he felt at this type of forward questioning. "Padawan, look at me," he said, inflecting gentleness in his voice. "Please don't be afraid."

Obi-Wan shifted, eyes filled with embarrassment slowly slid toward Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon's face was entirely serious and held all the concern that Obi-Wan had ever seen there, but the boy's stomach churned, nevertheless.

"What do you remember?" Qui-Gon again asked. "Is it confusing?"

Obi-Wan gave a small nod.

"Does it not all fit together? Some things conflict?"

After a slight hesitation, Obi-Wan nodded again.

"Do you remember being raped?" The master's voice caught on the last word, but he held the padawan's gaze and Obi-Wan did not look away.

Obi-Wan blinked slowly, and nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"You were not raped, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon softly assured, seeing a flash of surprise in the boy's eyes. "The man who placed that imprint in your mind somehow placed new conflicting memories there. I sensed some of them when I escaped," he explained. "You were not raped. They only wanted you to think you were."

"To make me angry," Obi-Wan concluded, his thoughts and focus growing distant.

"Yes," Qui-Gon agreed, his mouth a thin line.

Obi-Wan's head slowly bowed, but he said nothing. Neither one said anything for some time, and Qui-Gon tried very hard to ignore the small sniffle he heard.

Gracelessly, Obi-Wan wiped a sleeve across his face. Then he cleared his throat softly and spoke in a small voice, "thank you for rescuing me, Master."

Qui-Gon smiled, a little somberly. "I'm sorry you suffered as much as you did."

Obi-Wan raised his head, and to Qui-Gon's surprise a shaky smile lit up the padawan's face. "I may be wounded, Master, but I'm not broken."

* * *

Beneath the brave exterior was something raw and aching - wounds caused by Tarren that were still in need of healing. The man's death had helped to ease it along, but Obi-Wan had no doubt that over time they would become less and less distinguishable, fading to nothing or mere scars. He could and would go on, unless . . .

A shudder washed through him. For all the years that he had been at Qui-Gon's side, no threat had ever taken up residence inside him, not like this. With the prospect of the imprint remaining (or worse), a dark future loomed like a suffocating woolen shroud, maw gaping and claws imbedding deep in his flesh.

No. . . . He stopped himself. This self-pity was unbecoming of a Jedi, padawan or not.

Destiny marked his course, and that path was his alone to walk, Master Yoda had said.

Nodding his determination, he edged down a hallway to a door, being as quiet as he could. A stealthy peek in the room indicated that it was empty, so he slipped through the opening and waited until it had sealed shut before going in further.

The cockpit was empty, the pilot and copilot probably engaged in some social activity with Qui-Gon elsewhere in the ship, and that was all fine with him.

Qui-Gon had ordered him to bed-rest until they arrived at the Temple, since he had left the medical center before he would have been normally released. But the padawan had grown tired of lounging around, wanting to venture beyond his small cabin. And often did so without his master's knowing, as he was now.

He dropped in the pilot's chair, disinterested eyes flickering over the console of buttons, switches, and readouts until a flashing indigo light attracted his attention. Drawing closer, he rested the pad of his finger on it. It looked to be an indicator of hologram messages received. Impulsively, he pressed down on it, and sank back into the sable leather padding of the chair.

Bright and blue, a tiny holo of Yoda appeared on the console before him. The wizened old master stared ahead, his clawed hands resting patiently on the top of his gimer stick.

"Master Qui-Gon," the scratchy voice began, as the translucent shape flickered briefly, betraying its ghostly presence. "Concerned for Obi-Wan, we all are." His long pointed ears drooped slightly, and his rounded eyes blinked lazily. "Still discussing the removal of the imprint, we are. But plausible, it may be. Good, this is," and the little master smiled gently. "However," he went on more seriously, "mention to Obi-Wan the disagreement of a new master for him, you will not. Need that now, he does not," he gruffed, poking the end of his gimer stick to the floor. "If need you anything, in Council today I will be, and where you will find me. May the Force be with you, Qui-Gon." He bowed, the blue image blinked out.

Obi-Wan sat, stunned. Tears welled from his eyes, hot and burning. And he had to run, to go away somewhere, somewhere safe.

Within a breath, the padawan was on his feet, pounding from the cockpit and through the many halls. He blinked back the tears of betrayal. The pain of rejection that the Jedi had inflicted on him resurfaced, and he was that same twelve-year-old boy who had been told to leave forever . . . unwanted.

He was dizzy. So dizzy.

And alone.

A trembling hand braced him against the wall as he went, or else he would have fallen right there to the hard deck. He pressed on and on and on, and eventually found himself in a deserted dark room, where he sank to his knees on thin carpet. A sliver of light crept under the door, and the glowing dust of space peered in upon him from a large window, but he was alone. It was his cabin. And it was cold.

* * *


	15. Edge of Destiny

REMNANTS IN THE MIND - Cascadia

See part 1 for notes, disclaimer, etc.

* * *

CHAPTER 15-EDGE OF DESTINY

As soon as he had sensed the waves of distress, Qui-Gon had immediately headed to Obi-Wan's cabin He palmed the door release and barged into the near-lightless room. There, he saw the boy kneeling on the floor, facing the stars. But the padawan did not move.

"Are you meditating, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon whispered, then thought that if he was, it could not have been very successful given the amount of distress that had flowed from him.

When there was no answer, the Jedi master stepped in the room and let the door slide shut behind him. "Obi-Wan?" he ventured, growing concern in his tone.

"Was it you or the Council?" Obi-Wan's soft voice was accusing and hurt at the same time.

Qui-Gon stopped, confused and taken aback by the implication. "What?"

Obi-Wan rose very slowly to his feet and turned to face him in the dimness. "Was it _you_ or the Council?" His eyes were narrow and blazing with pain.

Casually crossing his arms across his broad chest, Qui-Gon wandered into the room further until he stood directly in front of the padawan. "What are you talking about?" he frowned.

Obi-Wan heaved a sigh, his gaze unmoving as it met Qui-Gon's, and his shoulders slumped. "Getting me a new master," he replied in a small, dismal voice. "Was it you?"

And the soft, resigned pain in the boy's tone clenched Qui-Gon's heart. Despite the lack of sufficient light, he saw the hurt. He saw the despondency of perceived betrayal etched in the soft angles of youth. And he saw tears swelling in pale eyes.

"No," Qui-Gon began gently, shaking his head, "it was not me . . . nor was it the Council."

A frown creased Obi-Wan's brow. "But . . ."

"But," the Jedi master continued patiently, "it was Healer Pasheso."

Aquamarine eyes grew wide. "But why?"

"It's a long story, Obi-Wan. But I will not let another take over your training," Qui-Gon assured him, large hands clasping the padawan's upper arms. "You're my padawan and will remain so until you are knighted. The Council has only to formally announce it. Pasheso thought it would be for the best to have another, but Yoda and others know otherwise."

Relief washed through Obi-Wan, and he released a huge sigh. "I'm sorry. I said I trusted you, but I guess I . . ." he trailed off in shame, diverting his gaze.

"Perhaps I should have told you," Qui-Gon smiled ruefully. "But I was . . . concerned, and I didn't want you to worry unnecessarily." He paused, taking in the worn appearance of his padawan. "How did you find out?"

"A holo message." Obi-Wan trudged to his bed and dropped on it, bouncing gently. "It was Master Yoda. He said he would be in Council today, and that it may be plausible to remove the imprint," he said, sprawling back across the mattress.

"I hope so," the master breathed.

"I just wish it was over with," came the quiet reply.

* * *

"He's dangerous, Qui," Mace said. "If he snaps . . ."

"Snaps?" Qui-Gon growled back.

The Councilor placed a placating hand on the taller man's shoulder. "Qui-Gon," his voice warned. "We don't know what this . . . _thing_ might do to him. We have to take precautions."

"Precautions? What precautions?" Qui-Gon was sure he about to lose any serenity he had before now. "This is Obi-Wan you're talking about, not some crazy person."

"Yes, it _is_ Obi-Wan. But what's inside him is _not_," Mace explained. "This is serious, my friend. Let's treat it as such."

Qui-Gon was busy studying his charge through the clear glass observation window. Obi-Wan was alone in the room and sat on an examination table looking lost. It tore his heart to see the boy this way - that quiet, beautiful spirit's future in suspension.

"There is a Force screen around the room," Mace informed him, "just in case . . . something happens."

Qui-Gon's head flew to Mace, a dark gaze in midnight blue eyes.

"We'll have the entire High Council and a mind healer in there," the Councilor continued. "You said Tarren said he transferred the imprint to Obi-Wan. Yoda thinks we may be able to dislodge it in the same way, and then hopefully destroy it, and Obi-Wan will be free."

"And if not?"

"If not . . . I don't know. _We_ don't know. Yoda has tentatively probed it, and is now meditating. He said there was a slight flaring when he examined it, but that was all. Hopefully, it won't do anything else."

Qui-Gon returned to staring at Obi-Wan again.

"Qui-Gon. There is something else."

The seriousness of Mace's voice brought Qui-Gon's gaze back to him.

"If it doesn't work, then we can't keep him here. We don't know what kind of influence that thing could have on him."

Qui-Gon blinked with shock.

"We're not monsters, Qui," Mace said to the accusation in the taller master's visage. "Likely, he would be sent to a remote, inhabitable planet near the Outer Rim."

"Oh, and that would solve everybody's problem," Qui-Gon retorted.

Mace could see the rage building in the other master. "No," he answered bluntly, shaking his head.

"Then what?" said Qui-Gon sharply.

"Then . . . Obi-Wan could live out his life, and he would be no threat to us."

Qui-Gon rested his hands on his hips. "Mace, if we sent him away, then that madman who put it there would find him and . . ."

"We have no choice. He can't stay here unless he's kept isolated in a Force-sealed room. Which do you think is more humane?"

"Mmmm," a scratchy voice intruded. "Attempt to remove, we must, the imprint first. Judgements then may be rendered. Hmm?"

Both sets of eyes simultaneously cast to the small master. A series of soft grunts accompanied Yoda's journey as he hobbled towards them.

"Master," Qui-Gon greeted him. A strange relief settled through him with the wizened troll's presence.

Large beryl eyes peered from beneath lazy lids. "Qui-Gon, what say you of Obi-Wan's state of mind?"

Folding his arms, Qui-Gon considered. "He's . . . well, he's at peace as well as can be expected."

"But what of himself? How close to the boy before the attack is he?"

Qui-Gon swallowed hard and thought of the days of joy, before. . . . "He is becoming stronger," he said carefully, amazed at his own revelation, but he saw Yoda's knowing gaze. "I believe this has strengthened him. But . . . he also believes that this imprint has kept the assault from drifting away. That it has been keeping it foremost in his mind, so that he has had difficulty healing properly from it. If not for the imprint, Obi-Wan would have been mostly fine by now."

Wrinkled green lips curled into a smile. "Strong, the boy is. Stronger than he himself believes. However, serious danger now is he in. Meant to destroy him this was. Yes, meant to destroy us all."

"Will he . . ." Qui-Gon was unable to finish, unable to ask his greatest concern.

"Hmm." Heavy lids slid over surprisingly bright eyes, and his voice fell whisper soft. "Always in motion, is the future. Always."

Qui-Gon looked away, unable to hide the look of worry that passed over him.

"Come," said Yoda. "Work have we to do."

* * *

"Master?" Round eyes glittering against the pale of ivory skin locked on the tall master.

Qui-Gon reached up to grasp the new padawan braid dangling against Obi-Wan's chest. Taking a strand of his own hair, the master had used Force energy to fuse it to the snipped ends of the boy's hair where his had been. Obi-Wan had smiled gratefully and offered a sheepish 'thank you, Master', before reverently sliding his hand down the woven tress.

It was a gift that Qui-Gon had determined to present to Obi-Wan before they arrived at the Temple, when everything would dramatically change as the full import of the dark imprint took over their lives.

"Obi-Wan," the baritone voice soothed. He had made sure the boy had mediated just prior to arriving at the healers ward, but there yet remained traces of apprehension in Obi-Wan's posture.

"If something goes wrong . . ."

"_If_ something does . . . I will do everything I can to stop it."

Obi-Wan gazed deep into his eyes and gave a slow nod. He swallowed hard, but stilling peace remained thick around him.

A tiny smile touched Qui-Gon's face, grateful for the boy's serenity. "I'll take your pain, if there be any. Don't hesitate to reach for me. Yoda and the others will locate and destroy the imprint," he said, knowing it would not be so simple in occurrence.

And Obi-Wan knew. For a small, dark shadow passed behind his eyes. "Yes, Master," he whispered, and a heavy weight of something akin to dread coiled around his heart. He tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore it, and the look in Qui-Gon's eyes indicated he knew the familiar _bad feeling_ expression. Smiling somberly, the padawan looked away.

A hand, large but gentle, rose to cup Obi-Wan's face and turn the young face back toward Qui-Gon. The master silently regarded him before speaking. "I will be here for you, Obi-Wan. And the Force, much greater than I ever could be, will be with you always."

Obi-Wan nodded slowly, then sighed when the room began filling with several mind healers and the members of the High Council.

In the bright light of the examination room, Obi-Wan lay on the table with the healers and the Councilors gathered around, Yoda to his left, Qui-Gon to his right, clasping his hand. One by one, the Jedi each settled a hand along on the padawan's arms or legs to make contact. Obi-Wan closed his eyes, centering himself in the Force and slowly dropped his shields until there remained the one deepest, most personal vault that none other than the imprint's originator had ever touched. With a small regret, he at last dropped that one.

After a spate of complete quiet, they entered the young mind fairly quickly, much to Obi-Wan's surprise, but it did not hurt to have so many minds in his own. Rather, it felt exhilarating and disorienting at the same time. A golden glow of balmy energy and exquisite balance all contained within his mind.

For several moments there was nothing else out of the ordinary. Recognizing the slight crowding in his thoughts, he pressed back out of the way, becoming a mere spectator and allowed unhindered access to every part that they wanted. To his relief, the healers and masters only vaguely noted his most intimate thoughts and quickly bypassed them. He noted the other presences were amassing together with a combined strength near where the deep void of darkness had rooted itself.

_/Obi-Wan/ _Qui-Gon's mental voice gently rung through his mind.

_/Yes, Master/ _

_/They have found the imprint and are forming a barrier around it/ _Qui-Gon informed him.

_/I know./ _

Obi-Wan felt a sudden sweep of pain, and tightened his grasp on his master's hand. Then, what seemed like a whirlpool of thoughts twisted in a jumble, and the pain increased exponentially.

_/Obi-Wan/ _Qui-Gon sounded urgent.

_/Mas- . . ./_

And Obi-Wan never finished. Heavy shadowy waves crashed over him, and the fall of a terrible blackness encased and clawed at his awareness. If he could have gasped, he would have.

_/Obi-Wan/ _the usual calm of Qui-Gon's voice, gone.

Colors, shapes, thoughts, images, and memories pressed in the precious book of a young lifetime were torn out of their resting-places and swirled around by winds of madness. He sensed a slight panic, and distantly realized that it was himself when a steadiness channeled away most of the pain.

There was a mournful screech as the Darkness was ripped away, and concentrated energy bore into it, pulling it apart to shreds. At last, the evil presence subsided and shriveled away, and a brightness of loving light flooded inside. But the storm of perplexity remained . . .

"It's gone," sighed Mace wearily.

"Gone, it is," Yoda agreed.

"Something's wrong," Qui-Gon's voice carried desperation. "Something's wrong with Obi-Wan."

Yoda's long ears sagged.

"But the imprint is gone," Adi Gallia said. "What could possibly . . ."

"What could possibly, what could possibly?" Qui-Gon repeated in anger. "What do you think? That that mad man couldn't hurt him? That Obi-Wan wasn't in danger? That you're all so powerful that-"

"Qui-Gon," Mace warned, dark eyes piercing.

And for a brief moment the two men stared daggers at the other.

"Tried to protect him, we did," said Yoda in a softly sad tone.

"What exactly is wrong?" Depa Billaba asked. "He _is_ alive."

"Yes, but all I'm sensing from him is . . . confusion," Qui-Gon explained. "His mind's been . . ." He stopped as Obi-Wan stirred, his hand still holding the padawan's.

The Councilor's remained crowded around the table, and Mind Healer Treng, a Twilek, stepped forward. He slid his palm across Obi-Wan's brow.

The boy's eyes fluttered open, staring dully at the light on the ceiling.

"Obi-Wan?" whispered Qui-Gon. He leaned closer, holding the boy's hand between his larger ones.

The confused eyes shifted to him and blinked.

"Obi-Wan?" the tall Jedi tried again.

A frown formed on Obi-Wan's forehead as he continued to stare at the bearded Jedi.

Qui-Gon's heart hammered in his chest, but he dared to reach out through the bond again to find overwhelming confusion. "Obi-Wan? Please answer me."

He watched in silent agony as the boy's mouth struggled to form a word.

"Mas- . . . ter . . ." Obi-Wan stuttered.

A dreary smile fell across Qui-Gon's lips, and he looked up into the worried eyes of Healer Treng.

* * *

He stood, gazing out a set of large windows at the air traffic silently flying by. Shadows of night were slowly deepening, and the vision was growing darker.

But not dark enough.

The light mocked him.

He had nearly succeeded in destroying it, but others had interfered. Others had destroyed that small piece of him that had been placed in a young Jedi, and now he was afraid.

Afraid of the dreams that haunted him. Afraid of the visions he emerged from in perspiration for the fear of what the future held.

He hated himself for letting the boy go, for not being able to destroy him when he had the chance. But to be able to possess that light, to be able to command and control it had been much too seductive to resist.

He turned away from the night scene and walked across plush scarlet carpet to his obsidian desk. Opening a drawer, he stared down at a dull silvered cylinder - the boy's lightsabre that he had saved.

It was a beautiful object, he mused. Much like its builder, for they both possessed light.

His eyes stared hatefully at the weapon, and it suddenly crumpled up in a small heap of metal.

No. This was not the end, he smiled. For darkness was falling.

* * *

EPILOGUE

With bowed head and closed eyes, he knelt alone in one of the meditation chambers of the Jedi Temple, window blinds open and watched by the stars.

A single, crimson blossom had been left for him here before he had arrived. There was no note, nothing accompanying it to confirm just who had left it for him, but he knew well within his heart the caring, deeply loving nature of his Jedi master - and he most certainly had the sentimental, creative flair for such an invention.

It was in the mediety of springtime on Coruscant when flowers achieved idyllic beauty. Flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors bred in the artificial gardens, brightened and emboldened with a flair and exquisite finesse. But this one was an exception to achieve such a state in the chill of winter.

It was a Sandriffa, if his memory was correct - a treasure in its balance of aesthetics with aromatic scent. Dainty, silk crimson petals surrounded a rosette of ivory stamens and a large pistil in the center, which glowed a lovely pale shade of pink at night, as it was now.

Obi-Wan was not an avid flower-monger, but Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn had introduced him to many alien varieties, but where he had seen this one before sadly remained a mystery.

Sending one's padawan a flower was not the standard action of protocol between master and apprentice; but then again, Qui-Gon was not the standard master. On the contrary, he was the quintessential rogue Jedi - but he was also his teacher and father figure, and the Council had assured him that Qui-Gon would train him to knighthood.

Over the span of his meditation hour, the drift of the Sandriffa's pungent tea and citrus top notes had filled the entire chamber, making it impossible to take one breath without being inundated with the sweet aroma - enchanting is most certainly was, but utterly impossible to ignore. Originally pleased with the discovery, he now felt the florescent blossom was more of a distraction than a comfort, but since he had no intention of disposing of it, toleration seemed to be the only solution.

He shifted his weight, allowing for better circulation through his legs, and impatiently raked his fingers through his closely cropped hair. Maintaining any level of meditation required minimal movement - preferably none - and now . . . he was about to give up.

He felt that he should remember more about the flower, but even the countless starlit meditations revealed very little when it came to recent events before the imprint's removal. The man who had formed the imprint had fought the removal of it nine months ago, and the padawan had been left with a limited collection of memories and damaged motor skills.

Months of physical rehabilitation had brought him near the level he had left off, but there was still work ahead of him.

Sometimes, in the midst of fervent seeking a faint memory would resurface, but even then there remained large gaps or a misted haze, and all he could do was gratefully savor what he had been given.

The mind healers had said that this was expected, that nothing else could be done. And each time, he would ruefully smirk and offer no retort, but they knew his frustration.

The man who had done this to him had never been apprehended. Obi-Wan was the only one who could have possibly identified him, but all images of the man's appearance had been effectively erased.

Yet he cradled the hope that one day he would recover everything lost.

His thoughts drifted back to the bloom. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed familiar. His eyes, once again bright as the suns of Lamuri, slitted open and glanced at the beautiful flower again.

If a spark of the past could trigger a trickle of memories, then maybe a flower of illumination would loose the floodgates.

END

* * *


End file.
